


Never Let Me Go

by 13thDoctor, JHarkness



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Season/Series 04, Background Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Marriage, Not Canon Compliant, Period-Typical Homophobia, Secret Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-06-04 05:09:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6642556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13thDoctor/pseuds/13thDoctor, https://archiveofourown.org/users/JHarkness/pseuds/JHarkness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Captain Flint arrives in Nassau with a ring on his hand, the island's inhabitants and the Walrus' crew are left to wonder who the unfortunate dame might be. Meanwhile, John Silver is enjoying the married life as well as reaping the benefits of his superstitious crew's bets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Moonlight on the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate summary: Flint is a romantic and just wants more time alone. Silver is snarky. And Jack just wants the truth, goddammit! Anyway, please enjoy these sappy pirates as much as we have. Chapter One is more a prologue than chapter, so all the betting and high-sea shenanigans will come in time.

It had all started as a joke, the mocking complaint of Billy Bones when he witnessed the pair bickering for the fifth time that day. “Why don’t you just get married already?” he growled amusedly, and then turned down the deck stairs without a glance. His snickers faded into the sea air, but the statement echoed in the minds of the men long after he had gone.

Flint started abruptly, torn away from his argument mid-sentence. Silver stared at him, question barely masked in his bright blue eyes. He loved Flint, but marriage to the Captain seemed an otherworldly concept. So he smiled at the corner of his mouth, sighed, and the breath was shakier than he cared to admit. Flint was still staring at him though, a hard gaze from which Silver could not hide.

“Is that what you want?” the Captain asked. Gently, he placed his hand on Silver’s cheek, allowed in the open when they were alone and under cover of darkness.

John Silver was, perhaps for only the second time in his life, at a loss for words. He licked his lips, and Flint followed the action hungrily.

“Are you asking me to…?”

Uncertainty flicked across Flint’s eyes. Terror. He cleared his throat, and Silver’s smile faltered. He pulled away a step, but Flint tightened his hold. Guilt painted the Captain’s face when he realized his blunder. Fingers twisted in Silver’s curls on either side of his face, and Flint closed the distance between them with ease.

“When I ask you to marry me, it won’t be because a drunk crewman suggested it,” he whispered, so close to Silver’s ear that he felt dizzy.

His heart fluttered. That sounded like a-

“Promise?” He inquired hesitantly, and then flinched. He sounded like some lovestruck fool.

James did laugh at him, as expected, but there was no mirth, just adoration. When he answered yes, Silver could not keep the wide grin from his face, nor the giddy laugh that Flint caught with his own mouth. They kissed under the stars, obscured by the billowing white sails of _The Walrus_ , with the sounds of the ocean as their sole witness.

 

…

 

After a week of waiting for a proposal of any kind--he would have accepted a ring made of twine at this point--Silver was becoming impatient. And moody. The crew gave him a wide berth, though for what reason only Billy knew. After his joke, he had approached Flint with the same question, only serious, and with the intent to perform the ceremony. Silver did not know, was not privy to James’ incredibly secretive plans, and was increasingly frustrated as a result. This, combined with his leg and having been at sea for two weeks, set him in a foul condition.

“Mr. Silver--”

“ _What?”_ he snapped at the unfortunately timed man. It wasn’t exactly his fault that all Silver could think about was Captain Flint and a damn nonexistent ring and the many nights he’d gone without anything further than a few kisses, but Silver reacted as if he was.

“Er, DeGroot wants a word,” the man said, and then promptly scurried past him.

Silver rolled his eyes and grabbed one of the ropes wound across the ship for his convenience. The Quartermaster had just resolved to visit Flint and bat his eyelashes until he achieved some kind of result. Grimacing, he made his painful descent to the deck, the muscles in his leg screaming in protest. It had been too long since he cleaned the boot, too long since he had taken it off, really, but he didn’t want to be caught in a proposal trying to swing around on crutches. Though, he realized grimly, there wasn’t much evidence to show that Flint would be dropping down on one knee anytime soon--or two, for that matter--if the crew kept pulling them apart like this.

It was an abnormally sunny day, the light bouncing off the clear blue water in a dazzling display. In other circumstances, Silver would find it breathtaking, but instead he found himself perturbed by the blinding rays and wishing it would just rain instead. God, he needed to get laid.

“Mr. DeGroot,” he began when he was close enough not to shout, “What would compel you to drag me across this ship at this present moment?”

DeGroot laughed, unfazed. He had seen his share of disgruntled shipmates, the frustration and flimsy fury. He knew the cause, though not the exact details, and felt no pity.

“The Captain has requested we make port to give the men some… release before we stretch our way back to Nassau. I’m inclined to disagree, but as Quartermaster, it is your final call.”

Silver bristled. James was making him choose here, to give the two of them a private night or to get the crew home as fast as possible. Though the idea of James indirectly inviting him to a date was highly alluring, he also knew the boys were close to boiling over. The tension in the air was palpable; he could almost smell their need to fight and fuck and drink, and only two were accomplishable at sea. Inebriated brawls on _The Walrus_ would do nothing for his disposition.

The Quartermaster squinted at the sun, one hand balancing him on the side of the ship and the other raised against the natural assault. “You don’t think they need it?” he inquired casually, knowing full well that DeGroot could see _he_ needed it.

“I have been known to overestimate the restraint of pirates,” the older man acknowledged. His mouth was set in a firm line as he studied Silver. The man looked positively dreadful, unkempt and in need of a bath, preferably with another warm body. “I can guess your answer, Silver.”

John grinned. “Give the men a break!” he called, loud enough for the crewmembers who had been milling around to hear. He was met with a resounding cheer and excited whoops. His next question he directed to DeGroot. “Where are we going?”

“I’ll show you on the map. It’s small, colonized, but overrun by pirates and brothels.”

“The perfect spot, then. Should I alert the Captain of our intentions?”

“Oh no, he’s already assumed the worst and had me plot a course. There he is on deck now, besides.”

Silver turned so fast he almost tripped, and was caught by strong, hard arms. Flint held him for a bit longer than proprietary allowed, a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth the only indication that his reaction to the proximity mirrored his lover’s. Silver, flustered, allowed himself to be pulled up and rather unceremoniously removed from Flint’s space. Feigning annoyance, Flint pushed him aside to conserve with their advisor, but Silver didn’t miss the wink thrown his way.

Bastard.

 

…

 

Not three hours later they were anchored and the longboats were readied. DeGroot slyly offered Silver the first departure, but he so generously insisted the crew be prioritized. Dr. Howell assured him they would leave some of the whores for him. Silver thanked him, as was only expected, and then eagerly descended below deck to the Captain’s cabin when they were all on shore. No one noticed his absence, high-strung and horny as they were.

“Captain Flint,” he drawled once at the door. “Don’t you have some beautiful women to ravish on that beach?”

“Don’t you?” James shot back, tongue as sharp as the echo of his boots against the floor.

“I’m waiting for some ravishing myself, you see, but someone is taking his grand old time.”

James wore nothing but those boots, a long black tunic, and leather pants that hugged every line of his frame. Silver appreciated him unabashedly, desire burning the pit of his stomach. He moved forward into the room, using the wall to steady himself, and then chairs when he could no longer reach that. Flint watched him, and then without any preamble, tugged his shirt off and flung it to the floor. The other man circled John like an animal on the hunt, always watching, barely moving except to flick his tongue over his lips or to slide his pants just a little further down his hips. The sight of James’ bare skin sent John’s heart pounding. He reached the desk and leaned back on it, gesturing to the open door.

“I would like to suggest--”

“I would like to suggest,” Flint interrupted, walking forward until the backs of Silver’s thighs were pressed to his desk. “That you make a choice.” The Captain’s fingers followed the line of his lover’s collarbone, and then fell lower, deftly unbuttoning his shirt. “Sit there and question my schedule, or get fucked across this desk.”

That threat alone made Silver lose all control. He grabbed the back of James’ neck and tugged with all his strength, crashing their mouths together in a consuming embrace. James growled and moved his hands behind his lover’s thighs, and then promptly lifted him onto the desk. Silver very vocally expressed his enthusiasm for this choice.

Still sitting up, Silver swept his arm across the surface, sending parchment, quills, books, and compasses to the floor. James had both their shirts off now, and was biting at Silver’s chest, fingers working their way under his trousers.

“Mm, you first,” John teased, and batted those eager hands away. James hissed in protest but did as he was told.

The spectacle of seeing those pants come off was simply obscene. Silver didn’t mind that it took longer than usual, because every inch of James was there for him alone, and he could enjoy each passing second. James wasn’t completely hard yet, but Silver could think of a few ways to change that. Curls falling in his face, Silver leaned back on one elbow and beckoned Flint forward with his finger as he’d seen Max do so many times. They both laughed, but Silver could see the effect on James despite the silliness of the action.

He was on him again in an instant, their tongues behind each other’s teeth. Flint groaned into John’s mouth, finally working on the other man’s waistband. Every minute with those damned clothes separating them felt like a special kind of Hell reserved just for Silver, whose hand was between James’ legs already, stroking, begging him to move faster.

“I won’t make it to fuck you if you keep that up,” Flint growled into his partner’s neck. Silver damn neared whimpered at the primal timbre, but slowed his hand.

Flint worked his pants down his knees, and only then did Silver register that he would have to remove the boot. The thought sobered him a little, but he wouldn’t let it ruin this, not now. He kissed the Captain quickly and ducked his head to assist with the prosthesis, but just as he was ready to unclasp the first buckle, a pained voice rang out from behind them.

“Jesus Christ!” Billy Bones shouted, and the simple curse carried the sound of a man scarred for life.

Silver’s heart stopped briefly, and then picked back up into a frenzied, jolting rhythm as he stared at Billy from over Flint’s bare shoulder. The First Mate looked mortified, hands over his eyes and mouth working to form sentence, but Silver couldn’t hear it over the blood rushing in his ears. Billy was his closest friend on the crew; the loss of his friendship would be unbearable. John looked to his lover for a hint on how to proceed.

To his surprise, most of Flint’s chagrin seemed to stem from being interrupted rather than being caught naked with his Quartermaster. He wore his usual scowl, and  his hands were still on John’s waist. Confused but comforted by his apparent apathy, he could finally listen to Billy.

“--went to town right away--”

“I thought you’d be later than this!” Flint barked. His palm slid off of Silver and he turned, evoking a high-pitched, tortured wail from Billy.

Finally, Silver registered a package in the First Mate’s hand, the brown wrapping crumpled slightly due to his tight grip on it. He brandished it like a shield, attempting to hand it off to James even as he took great care to not look at the pair. Silver could no longer contain himself, and fell to his back on the desk in hysterics. Billy would have fixed him with a murderous glare had he not been trying to avoid any view.

“I have to burn my eyes out now,” he murmured dejectedly.

Flint laughed and took the package from his outstretched hand, careful to avoid contact with his fingers. He wouldn’t want to damage the man irreparably, after all. He offered a few words of appreciation for Billy’s help--with what, Silver was still uncertain--and then sent him on his way. The First Mate groped his way out of the cabin, using furniture as a guide and griping about his misfortune until he was out of range. Silver would have placed a bet that his next action would be to dive off _The Walrus_.

Flint made sure to lock the door once they were alone, exaggerating the action and eyeing Silver as he did so. An “I told you so” was on the younger man’s lips, but Flint crossed the room in a few long strides and stole his breath with a kiss. Silver sat upright and melted into him, arms around his shoulders. It was a bit awkward, with Flint holding that damn package  instead of holding Silver. But the taste of salt and rum on his lips--Silver would take that any way he could get it.

Flint broke the kiss, pulling away from the desk. Flailing, Silver gripped the underside of the desk and glared. His hair was disheveled, half-in and half-out of its ponytail. He probably looked like a goddamn whore, splayed on the desk with his pants to his knees and chest heaving. Despite this, Flint’s eyes were fixed to the package alone. He stroked the brown paper with the utmost care, and Silver registered by its shape and size that it must be a book.

“Going to share?” he asked, a hint of frustration in his voice as he realized their escapade was effectively ruined.

“No.”

Silver frowned, tracing the designs carved into the wood. Flint tucked the book under his arm and pressed a quick kiss to Silver’s forehead before walking around the desk and picking his paper and writing instruments off the cabin floor. When another pointed look was cast his way, Flint just shrugged and sat, rearranging the materials around Silver.

With a grunt, Silver slid off the desk. There was an awkward period as he attempted to turn to face the Captain. He had to drag his leg around himself and flip his torso to accomplish this, and with no aid, it was a difficult task. Yet he was glad Flint offered no assistance, knowing it would make Silver feel weak.

Facing James Flint, Silver felt himself bristle. They had not been properly alone since Billy made that damn comment, and Silver felt lost at sea. Flint was drifting.

The Captain was staring at Silver, hands still on the book. He had not yet unpackaged it, but Silver could tell he desperately wanted to.

Silver sighed, shoulders slumping in defeat. “I’ll go see to the men, then,” he provided by way of an excuse. The Quartermaster had a responsibility to all the crew, and Silver knew that while the men needed a stiff drink and open thighs, their captain needed the ocean air and a long book.

“Come back before nightfall, please.”

 

...

 

It was just before dusk when Silver returned to the ship. The _Walrus_ ’ crew was happily milling about the island, stinking of liquor and sex. Some returned intermittently for more money, sometimes for rubbers. The Doctor, tired of the noise, joined a group of these men to help row Silver back.

“Has Flint left the ship at all today?” Howell asked once they were on deck. Silver shook his head, staring at the water. It was placid, and he took a deep breath, hoping his lover was of a similar disposition.

Silver opened the door carefully once he reached the cabin. Flint was seated, book in hand. It was a simple black volume with gold lettering. _Los trabajos de Persiles y Sigismunda_ \--Silver cocked his head but did not comment. He walked to the window, supported by the wall and various pieces of furniture and sat on the edge of the makeshift bed. The prosthesis was excruciating. He knew he should have removed it on the beach, knew Howell’s urgings to use the crutches were sincere. But Silver could not bring himself to care, no matter how his wound burned.

He removed it in silence, biting his tongue against any exclamations of pain. Silver could feel Flint’s eyes on him, but did not meet them. Even when the boot was wholly removed and cast aside, he gazed at the ceiling.

Soft footsteps, echoing in the cabin only because of the thick leather soles, finally caused Silver to look down. Flint approached him with confidence, the novel held outward. He tossed it unceremoniously into Silver’s lap as he sat beside him.

Silver offered a sideways glance and curious smile, picking Cervantes’ novel up in both hands. It was a magnificent printing, freshly bound. The smell of leather, parchment, and ink were welcome as he inhaled. When he opened the front cover, he recognized the fine script of his lover:

_To my Sea_

Silver’s chest constricted. Flint had told him before that the sea was all he had left, that it was all he desired and needed. His grip on the book tightened, and Flint pressed a hand over Silver’s, using the other to cup his cheek.

“I once told you that in my head, you are not welcome. I believe I was afraid when I said that; afraid that you would be my ruin, my end. But I will gladly drown in you, if you’ll have me for a husband.”

Moments passed before Silver exhaled slowly, the next word barely audible. “ _Finally.”_

Flint scoffed. “Is that a yes?”

“Undoubtedly.”

 

…

 

Nine days later, Silver dragged his fiancé to the deck of _The Walrus_ and demanded to be married.

Their matelotage ceremony was brief, intimate. Billy, standing at the hull, presided as James Flint and John Silver faced one another. Anchored at the docks of Nassau, the cacophony from the beach provided an appropriately celebratory tone.

The ship itself was quiet; the crewmen had abandoned it for the arms of their whores and the necks of their bottles. It looked blue in the bare light of the crescent moon. Silver tilted his face to the glow, tacit appreciation for their only witness. He could feel Flint’s eyes on him and smiled.

Billy’s voice was soft and proud. He read the marriage rights only loud enough for Flint and Silver to hear--barely a decibel above the rhythmic sounds of waves caressing the shore. Silver’s breath, quick bursts of air through his nose, were almost more audible. The nerves combined with the pain of standing and the flare of affection in his chest were overwhelming. Silver let himself be supported by the Captain, knees too weak to protest. Flint’s hands were on his waist, thumbs pressed under Silver’s thin cotton shirt, tracing small circles over his skin. The touch burned through every inch of his body. But Silver was lost in the depth of Flint’s green eyes, bright and adoring and _alive_. The heat became a subtle constant, buried behind the sight of his lover’s eyes on his lips.

“You may present the rings,” Billy announced. Flint beamed, and Silver thought he might fall, then. The tightness of his chest stopped his breath, and he found himself suffocating in the ocean air as the Captain removed one of his hands from Silver’s waist. He reached up to pull a leather cord from his neck. A pair of gold rings dangled from it, reflecting light from the stars. Flint untied the cord and slid both rings into his palm before passing one to Silver. He tucked the cord back into his pocket and then slid his hand over Silver’s left palm, turning it and moving his hand until he held Silver’s wrist.

“Do you, John Silver, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do.”

The metal was unexpectedly warm on his finger. Silver gasped when Flint’s hand withdrew, unable to tear his eyes from the wedding band. He was still staring at it when Billy turned to Flint.

“And do you, Captain James Flint, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

Silver met Flint’s eyes. The Captain’s lips were parted, chest lifting clearly with each breath. “I do.”

Silver had never heard him answer something with more certainty.

His hands were shaking when he placed the ring on Flint’s finger. He marveled at their hands, intertwined, rings clinking against one another as Silver explored the smooth metal, so harshly discordant with the callousness of a captain’s skin. Forgetting the pain in his leg, he pressed forward, wrapping his arms around Flint’s neck. A sound somewhere between a sigh and laugh escaped Billy. Flushing slightly, Silver waited.

Billy cleared his throat. “You may kiss,” he grumbled, turning to pointedly gaze at the water. Flint laughed, a deep rumble from his chest that built until Silver suppressed it with a kiss. He caught him open-mouthed and grinned into his lips.

Flint took Silver’s face in his hands gently, reverently, and returned the kiss, closing his eyes as he breathed in the scent of seawater and oranges. The tenderness of it was intoxicating, so much so that Silver nearly whimpered when Flint pulled away. But the feeling of his lips lingered, indelible, and his palms remained pressed to Silver’s cheeks.

Flint’s eyes were still on Silver’s lips when he ordered Billy off the ship.

Silver thought he heard Billy thank the Captain before hurrying off _The Walrus_ , calling “Congratulations!” almost as an afterthought. Silver laughed, staring after him. But then his face fell, grief growing in his chest. The beach was alight with reveling, with enamored lovers and drinks between friends. Flint followed the frown with his thumb, eyebrows knitted together. He rested his forehead against Silver’s, sighing.

“They would not--”

“I know,” Silver breathed. He smoothed his lover’s tunic, bright white against his own tan hands. Tilting his head back to meet Flint’s eyes, he pulled his husband closer until their mouths met once more. Silver kissed him chastely. “That does not mean I would not prefer to show off my husband.”

Flint chuckled, trailing kisses down Silver’s neck. “And I mine.” Lust burned in Silver’s stomach, sending heat pooling down his body. A gasp formed on his lips as Flint brought their hips together. Silver knew they needed to make it to the cabin before anything began, and the thought of traversing the deck and stairs was torturous. His sharp exhale pierced the air.

Without a word, Flint wrapped his arm around Silver’s waist and stepped to his side. Red colored his cheekbones; each muscle was quivering with the effort to keep his body off of Silver’s. Their descent to the cabin was predictably agonizing. Each step reminded Silver that he had worn the boot too long, that his flesh was weak and decaying, and no amount of bandages wrapped by gentle hands would bring his leg back. But those same hands were strong on his waist, burning imprints into his flesh like brands. _Husband_. His husband’s hands, equally hard and soft, helping him to their cabin. When Silver needed to pause for breath, Flint’s lips were on his shoulder, his collar. The captain’s quarters were welcomed like a shoreline after being lost at sea.

Flint threw the door open, and his hands were on Silver before they could reach the window bed. Silver almost tripped, but was caught and lifted until his good leg was around the Captain’s waist. He groaned appreciatively as Flint’s arms encircled his hips, pressing their bodies flush against one another. Flint carried him the remaining distance, setting him on the bed before leaning on both knees on the wooden floor. When his breath returned, Silver moaned, bending forward to grasp the neck of Flint’s tunic and pull it hastily over his head. Once it was discarded, Silver worked on his own, throwing off his vest and shirt as his lover’s hands gripped the insides of his thighs. Flint’s fingers were tugging at his waistband eagerly. He leaned forward until his mouth was on Silver’s stomach, tongue following the lines of his hips as he worked at his trousers. Flint ceased only to pull the material completely off, exposing Silver to the night air. The sudden coolness shocked his skin, and he momentarily forgot the prosthesis as Flint placed a kiss to his thigh.

Despite Flint’s gentleness, a pained cry answered the boot’s removal. His hand was gripped immediately as soothing words were whispered into his skin. The ache subsided to a dull throb, and he hummed contentedly, leaning back into the window. Flint followed, maneuvering them until they were stretched across the bed. Silver, naked beneath him, felt as if his skin was raw. Every moment of contact set him alight.

Flint bit at Silver’s lower lip and then captured his mouth in a full kiss, tongue pressing against his teeth. Hands roaming every inch of his lover’s torso, Silver responded in kind, sliding his tongue against Flint’s. His inability to breathe was the only deterrent; however, when their mouths separated, Flint busied himself with Silver’s body, supplying kiss after kiss. Silver arched into the warmth as he moved lower. Hands restraining Silver’s hips, Flint took him in his mouth with practiced ease. Incoherent words flowed from his throat. Silver felt his body straining under the resistance of Flint’s arms--lips parted in a soundless moan, legs weak, stomach clenched. Even with Flint’s mouth wrapped completely around him, he needed more.

“James,” Silver whimpered.

The reaction was immediate. The Captain growled and lifted his head, giving Silver a rakish grin before climbing back over his body. Flint buried his fingers in Silver’s curls, biting along his jaw as Silver tried to speak. The words were strangled at best. “Please, I need you inside me. Please.”

James’ movements faltered. They had not well and truly fucked since the amputation of Silver’s leg, and for good reason. It continued to pain him, and they decided the strain was likely unnecessary when there were other ways to find release. But Silver missed it, missed being taken and filled and feeling James lose himself in him.

“I’m sure,” he added, answering the question flashing behind his husband’s eyes. He caught James’ chin between his thumb and forefinger and pressed their lips together delicately. “I’m sure.”

James nodded and stood, letting his hand drag across Silver’s arm as he did. When their hands met, he squeezed, and Silver released a shaky breath. He was unsure if he had expected Flint to say no, but he had certainly worried that he would acquiesce out of pity. Despite knowing his lover saw him as anything but weak and would likely throw him out to sleep on the deck if Silver voiced that illegitimate concern, his hatred for the wound left him perpetually apprehensive.

Silver stared after James. His body was silhouetted by the the intruding moonlight, accentuating his broad shoulders and back. Silver whistled fondly, which earned him an eyeroll as the Captain located the bottle for which he was searching. He laughed heartily, biting his lip to quiet the sound as Flint returned. He waited at the edge of the bed until Silver stopped, licking his lips.

The pop of the cap sent a shiver down Silver’s spine. He pushed himself up until his shoulders were against the wall and pulled Flint by the waist until he could comfortably move his hand under his trousers. Stroking languidly, Silver smirked as Flint’s eyes closed to his touch, leaning into Silver’s adept fingers. His free hand finally pushed the damn things off, and he settled back into the bed, stretching his body. He sucked in a loud breath as James moved back onto the bed.

Silver let himself be positioned--his leg, or lack thereof, limited his ability in a way that disappointed him particularly, knowing he could never ride the Captain or get down on his knees for him again. That thought was quickly lost, though, as Silver’s lover pulled at his shoulder, motioning for him to lie on his right side. Flint placed a hesitant hand on his thigh, careful to avoid the bandages below, and pressed his chest to Silver’s back. One arm snaked around his chest while the other moved between them, leaving a wet trail on Silver’s spine. His breaths were short and shallow when James pressed inside of him; one finger swiftly becoming two as Silver’s muscles recalled the feeling. Twisting his shoulders, he threw his left arm back until he was clutching Flint’s neck. A low groan accompanied the exquisitely slow removal of Flint’s hand.

Flint buried himself in Silver completely, an unintelligible cry piercing the air as Silver tightened around him. He did not snap his hips back, but instead moved gradually, deliberately. Silver gasped as the angle shifted, as Flint bent to press a kiss to his shoulders, scorching the skin with his beard. His hands were ghosting over Silver’s chest.

Silver was already losing himself in the rhythm, gripping the sheets so tightly his knuckles were white. He knew he would not last long; too much time had passed since they could be together like this, and his body was straining to stay in control. Silver couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. James’ arm was strong against his chest, and he held it there, kissing his fingers. But his other arm was around his waist, traveling between his thighs, encouraging. Only moments passed before Silver’s resolve shattered. He came in James’ hand, whispering his name into the pillow. That was enough for his lover--Silver could feel the sudden rigidity of his body before a wave of heat enveloped him, and he crashed into Silver like a wave breaking on the beach.

Silver cried out with him, shifting his hips as much as he could to carry James through the aftershocks. James moaned into his neck, holding him until they were just a tangle of limbs, sweat, skin, and come.

When they finally--reluctantly--separated, James stayed on his side and let Silver lie back. His breaths were labored, and yet he still pressed frenzied kisses to Silver’s neck and face. Silver laughed, drawing James closer until he could press a soft kiss to his mouth. The corners of his lips turned up in an exhausted grin.

“I’m glad you finally learned how to lock a door,” Silver said.

“Mm,” came the only reply, mumbled against his chest.

James kissed him chastely and then shifted out of the bed, gathering up his discarded shirt as he went. Silver reached out for him halfheartedly, energy draining in the afterglow. He threw his arm over his forehead, smiling as he recounted the day’s events in his mind. _Husband._ Flint came back soon enough, a nightshirt on and a cloth in hand. Gentle hands cleaned them both, straightened the pillows to make the night more comfortable. Silver didn’t miss how his Captain arranged them under his bad leg to support it before he gathered him up, turning Silver’s head to his broad chest.

  
They fell asleep in each other’s arms.


	2. Devotion

Silver woke to the feeling of fingers running through his hair. He registered it slowly; the gentle scrape of blunt nails against his scalp and the pull on his curls. It was a pleasant sensation, spreading calm warmth through his body.

Without opening his eyes, Silver mumbled what was meant to be “good morning,” but it came out as gibberish. He felt the deep rumble of Flint’s abdomen as he laughed. This only encouraged Silver to snuggle closer, burying his face in his lover’s skin. He reached blindly for Flint’s left hand, tangling their fingers together and smiling as their rings made contact.

Flint continued to lazily stroke his hair, eyes closed against the morning sun. He breathed evenly, chest barely rising and falling beneath Silver’s head. Silver blinked and let his eyelids flutter open, not interested in missing the opportunity to watch his lover relax. It was not often the captain allowed himself to appear so vulnerable. Flint was somewhat sitting up, head against the wooden boards of the cabin and back over a small stack of pillows. His head was tilted back, neck exposed, face free of tension and scorn. Silver fixed his gaze on Flint’s wide shoulders. They were covered in freckles, which were growing more plentiful and darker due to the recent abundance of the sun. Stretching, Silver dragged himself up to place a kiss on a patch just beneath his collarbone. Flint grunted, opening one eye to stare down at Silver.

A chuckle breached Silver’s lips before he could help it, and Flint bit the inside of his cheek, turning his head to look at the ceiling to keep from laughing as well. Silver continued to kiss him, following the trail of freckles down his arm until his lips were on his palm, his fingers. Flint had his thumb tucked under his chin and pressed into a fist against his mouth. 

Chest flushed, Flint observed Silver quietly. Silver could see the smile in his eyes. But it faded when Silver kissed his ring, morphing into a clenched jaw and averted gaze. He stared out the window, a captain’s blank mask replacing his lover’s devotion.

“Where are you?” Silver asked. He lifted his chest until his eyes were level with Flint’s. A pregnant silence filled the room, and Silver knew Flint was weighing his words, considering how best to--Silver assumed--shatter their morning bliss.

Flint inhaled slowly before gritting out, “You will not be able to wear your ring.”

Silver blinked slowly. His brain seemed unable to comprehend the words for a moment, because a look of utter confusion, followed soon by devastation, eclipsed his features. It made complete sense, and yet it collapsed his lungs and shattered his heart into tiny fragments. This marriage was a lifeline for him. It tethered him to the world when he had been ready to give up hope, and he knew it meant the same for James. Not being allowed to wear that ring with pride meant hiding a crucial piece of himself, of them and their love and everything they had built. 

Silver nearly choked on his words. “Are you… Are you ashamed?” His voice shook, and he hated himself for it. What Flint was suggesting, it wasn’t wrong. It was their best chance at survival, at living another day to look into each other’s eyes and to not be hunted. 

Flint seemed anguished by the mere suggestion. “I could never be ashamed of you.” He reached out to cup Silver’s face and pulled it gently toward him, willing him to look into his eyes and see the truth of his words. Silver leaned into his touch until his forehead rested on Flint’s and he could knock their noses together. When the Quartermaster chuckled, it was bittersweet.

“I know,” he breathed, and James relaxed, losing the tension in his shoulders. Silver received two kisses, one to each set of knuckles, and he sighed contentedly at the contact.

“I regret living in a world where we are condemned,” James began. “I regret a life of scorn and ridicule and judgement that denies me the right of naming my husband to every ear. Marrying you was a testament to my bravery, an attribute that, in relation to love, I had thought I lost long ago. When I say you cannot wear your ring, understand it ruins my very soul.”

Silver grinned bashfully. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.” Flint nodded toward his desk, and Silver noticed that the cord on which their rings had been held before the ceremony was resting over the sundry papers there. He continued, “Wear it around your neck, near your heart. That is where I keep you.”

Flint tucked a loose strand of hair behind Silver’s ear before carefully extracting himself from the bed. Despite Silver’s protests, he stood, chuckling under his breath, and then groaning as a few bones cracked when he stretched. Silver huffed in response. He admired the view, but would not have minded a morning alone. The crewmen were due back soon. Time by himself with Flint was a precious commodity, especially since they would be at sea for the next weeks, on a voyage without reprieve or much time to truly appreciate one another as husbands.

Seeming to sense his apprehension, Flint turned back, dipping his head low to kiss Silver. He smiled into it, a mouth of harsh words and threats replaced with adoration when he was with his Quartermaster. Silver couldn’t decide if it was best to train his eyes on Flint’s face or his impressive expanse of hard, bare muscle.

Flint grasped his hand, and Silver was suddenly very sure his morning would complement his previous night. He smirked, biting Flint’s lips and settling his other hand on his Captain’s hip to will him closer. Flint groaned. Then, he retreated, and in his palm he held Silver’s ring. The gold shone brilliantly in the small amount of sunlight filtering through the curtains, making Silver’s heart ache that much more. He was a fool to think Flint would coax it from him slowly; a quick trick and an unpredictable attack was all he required.

Frowning, Silver watched him carry the ring to his desk. He seemed hesitant to let it go, never daring to look at Silver nor to place it anywhere. He finally plucked the single cord from atop the disorganized documents and slid Silver’s ring onto it. When he carried the necklace back over, it was with grim determination and a detached darkness in his eyes. Unsure, he stood over the bed and his partner. “Perhaps you think me a coward, and though I would argue with that, I--” 

“I do not,” Silver interrupted firmly. “I never have, and that is unlikely to ever change, James.” He paused, truly allowing the finality of his words reach his lover before he said with more mirth, “Now are you going to get on with it, or must I ensure my own pleasurable morning after?” It was difficult to erase the laughter from his face, but he managed.

The corner of Flint’s mouth turned up in a surprised smirk, and his head shook slightly from side to side. “You’re insufferable.”

Silver nodded. “I know.” He grinned as Flint guided himself back into the bed, the faint light of dawn offering little visual support as to where the pillows and his lover were separated. Eventually, Flint settled on straddling his hips, knees supporting his weight on either side of Silver’s thighs.

Both of Flint’s hands dragged along Silver’s torso. The ring knocked against his skin, and Silver held his breath. His eyes closed until he felt Flint’s hands on the back of his neck, the thick leather settle around his  collar, the ring fall to his chest.

Silver pressed his cheek against Flint’s, biting his lip. His entire body was hypersensitive--each scratch of the blankets and the ghost of breath against his lips and brush of skin to his was bliss. Silver was enjoying the married life.

“We have business ashore,” Flint whispered against his ear, sounding unconvinced by his own rationalization.

Silver gasped when Flint pressed his hips forward.  “Nassau can wait.”

A hesitant knock alerted them that it could not.

“What?” Flint barked, tone lethal. Silver pitied the man on the other side of the door.

The man cleared his throat. “Um, some of the men are returning soon.”

Silver almost laughed. “Thank you, Billy,” he called instead. He heard hastily retreating footsteps and sighed a moment later, wrapping his arms around Flint’s neck. His husband looked positively murderous.

“That fucker--”

“It was good of him to warn us,” he interrupted, hugging Flint closer. A caustic ‘I don’t fucking care’ was mumbled against his shoulder in response. Silver rolled his eyes.

“It occurs to me that we may not have this opportunity again for some time; however, I am first and foremost this ship’s Quartermaster,  _ Captain _ .” A complacent smile reached his lips. “And those men need money in their pockets and sea winds on their backs as soon as we can give it to them.” Flint grunted in concession but remained immobile all the same, face pressed into Silver’s neck and hips shifting tantalizingly. 

Silver reached to his side, stretching his arm and exclaiming triumphantly when he found what he was looking for. He ducked his head until he was looking into Flint’s eyes.

And then he promptly tossed Flint’s shirt into his face.

 

…

 

When the longboats hit the sands of Nassau, Silver inhaled deeply. The smell of burning meat was heavy in the air; another crew was celebrating a successful venture. Exaggerated giggles traveled across the beach--Max’s whores were going to be busy tonight. Silver glanced at the other men on the boat. Eyes wide and mouths agape, they hurried out of the vessel, hands already on their purses.

Silver stretched his prosthesis gingerly, sucking air between his teeth to mute himself. He had no interest in showing anything but power to the pirates of Nassau. Flint eyed him warily before exiting the boat. He remained at its side, however, as a discrete offering of aid. Silver only needed his forearm as leverage, good leg slung over the side of the longboat. The most difficult part was actually standing. The makeshift metal foot at the base of the prosthesis sank in the sand, throwing him off balance as one side of his body shifted lower than the other. Flint steadied him with an arm around his waist. It wasn’t necessary, but it was not unwelcome.

Head down as a coquettish grin broke over his face, Silver leaned into Flint, implicitly thanking him before stepping away. He fell in step slightly behind the Captain, head high in the glaring sun. Men whispered and pointed as they passed, and unnerved and resentful faces emerged from behind temporary tents. 

A small part of Silver enjoyed that fear, that resentment. Part of him found immense pleasure in the gaping mouths, in the way they saw him as some freak. It fed the legends and the fear. Flint abhorred it as much as he delighted in it.

The Captain had drawn him in his arms once, in the early dark of the morning on the deck. They had stared into the sea, and Flint had whispered about its depths. About its darkness. And he had seemed so mournful, so rageful, lamenting that it had already pulled him in and that he would never drag Silver down there with him.

_ But you cannot attempt to follow me,  _ he’d warned.

 

_ What if I already have? _

 

_ Then I have failed you. _

 

The memory dissipated as they moved further inland and Silver had to focus on actually reaching their destination. In no world would he keep the crew’s respect if he asked to rest, so he pressed on, probably when he should not have. 

As anticipated, the leg dragged. Flint slowed his pace to accommodate, but Silver was still sweating when they reached the tavern. The wound was aggrieved, each step sending shocks of pain through Silver’s side. He grunted with the effort to drag himself over the uneven path. No matter how long we wore the damn thing, he still felt the associated pain acutely. The only thing improving was his ability to hide it.

A tightness built in the pit of his stomach as he observed the stairs leading to Max’s office. Though not steep, they were narrow, and ascending them would not be agreeable. He was pleased when Flint offered his shoulder.

Max greeted them at her door, radiant and amiable. The dress she wore was sapphire blue with white trim. A silver chain caressed her throat, hanging low and culminating in a large jewel nestled in the hollow of her breasts. She kissed Silver’s cheek and smiled graciously at the captain, beckoning them to follow her as she turned back to her office.

Silver belatedly realized that his hand was still firmly clasped to Flint’s shoulder, for no reason but to hold him, and began to move it away. Flint’s left hand reached up to catch it, which could be excused by him thinking his Quartermaster was stumbling. What could not be excused, however, was the proceeding taking of Silver’s hand as they walked to the chairs Max had set out for them. He still felt the press of the ring when Flint released him.

Max circled around Silver, laying her hands on his shoulders. She tugged at one of his curls. “Silver, l’homme marié,” she whispered. “I did not anticipate this.”

Between Max’s wide smile and thick accent, Silver barely understood her as she patted his arm and walked around her desk. “I--What?”

“An unexpected match, yet a powerful one,” she purred, eyes flitting between them. “I never imagined you giving yourself over so completely to another.”

“Excuse me?” Silver stammered. He shifted his weight to his bad leg in his absentmindedness, and hissed when the sore flesh scraped the wooden chair. Max offered to fetch bandages and, to Silver’s chagrin, opium, but Flint waved her away. She folded her hands together in the way she did when she had no purpose but wanted to retain meaning, watching patiently. A small smile quirked at the corner of her soft lips.

Flint stared at him from the other seat, concern registering only slightly in his body when he leaned marginally toward his partner. After a moment of nausea, Silver nodded to his Captain, assuring him the pain has passed. Flint looked unconvinced but displayed no outright distress.

Recovered, he laughed. “I suppose it’s too much to ask for a wedding present from you?” he asked Max.

Mocking anger, she retorted, “Perhaps if I had been invited to a celebration.” She paused, considering the pair. “I could hold one here.”

Silver saw Flint tense. It was one small victory that the Captain had extended his trust in this matter to Billy and Max, but Silver knew that the wider the circle became, the more his anxiety would grow.

“I know,” she said, before Flint could berate her brashness. “Thank you for entrusting me with this. I am genuinely happy for you.”

Silver found it difficult to express his gratitude for this woman; his friend and rival, his confidante and betrayer. She had so much to gain by throwing them to the wolves. This would be the final rumor to send Captain Flint to his end, and no amount of ghost stories would save him.

Flint extended a courteous nod to their hostess before motioning to the documents arranged neatly on her desk.

“You have something for us?”

“Yes.” Max’s voice promptly took on a strictly professional tone. “We need timber for the fort and some construction in the interior. It is a fast ship, Spanish, but it should not be a problem for you.” She handed Flint a handwritten cargo slip; as the captain skimmed it, he rolled his eyes.

“Why the fuck do I need to know each type of wood? We’re taking it all.”

Her arms folded against her chest. “Jack felt it was necessary.”

Sneering, Flint simply responded that ‘of course he did,’ and carried on. The remainder of the meeting focused on navigation and a timeline, and Silver found his attention drifting. He watched the way James’ mouth worked around each word, planning and plotting. The way he held a quill to write, still like a gentleman of the navy. The freckles over the bridge of his nose. His eyes roamed the other man’s body, warmth pooling in his chest when he recalled how he looked without all those clothes. Flint met his eyes just once, and seemed to recognize the longing within them. His eyes gleamed and he astutely avoided much interaction with his husband for the rest of the meeting. Max seemed amused by this; she grinned when she bid them farewell.

“You could at least attempt subtlety,” Flint chastised as they made their way downstairs. The many inhabitants were too fond of their alcohol to pay them much mind. The pair settled in a dark corner of the tavern, away from inquisitive eyes.

“Now where would be the fun in that?” Silver took a hearty swig from his rum and felt some of it run down his chin. Flint’s hand reached up to wipe it away, thumb lingering a little too long over Silver’s bottom lip before he caught himself. He snapped his arm back with a frown. “Perhaps it would be better if we returned to the ship separately?” Silver suggested, heart sinking when Flint agreed. But then a hand was on his thigh, delicately tracing patterns down to his knee, back up again. “Only so I don’t ravish you on the beach.” His voice was low, feral. Silver found it difficult to breathe.

“Right.”

Deep, rumbling laughter broke the tension between them, quieted like a faraway thunder storm under the boisterous sounds of inebriated pirates. Flint’s hand traveled further up Silver’s leg.

“Or on this table?” Silver teased. Flint’s eyebrow shot up like he had considered just that. “ _ James.” _

The Captain stood so abruptly that he had to catch his chair from toppling over. Silver covered his mouth to keep the laughter at bay, and relished in the glare he received from his husband. Flint wrung his hands together and curled his lip at Silver, probably conceiving plans of retribution. As he watched the other man exit the bar, Silver found himself day-dreaming fondly of those punishments.

“Did Captain Flint just marry Eleanor Guthrie?”

It caught him completely off guard, something he wasn’t very keen of happening with his new status as invalid. “What the fuck?” he retorted, glad he hadn’t been sipping his rum at the time of his surprise.

Jack Rackham, in his usual flippancy, sat without invitation and peered at Silver with the utmost scrutiny. His triangular sideburns were immaculate, and frilly cuffs, pristine and white, were sticking out from that gaudy gold coat. The other quartermaster crossed one leg over his knee and leaned back. “Try to keep up, darling. James Flint, Eleanor Guthrie. Married or no?”

“No,” Silver replied brusquely. “Don’t you have a brothel to run?”

Jack narrowed his eyes. “The exact reason I have a partner, as it turns out.” He sighed and picked at a loose string on his shirt. “The woman is silent as the grave, but rest assured, Max knows.”

His face betrayed nothing. “Doubtful.”

Jack came closer, attempting to make them seem like friends. As if Silver could share this gossip with him. “Do not be daft, Mr. Silver. It’s unbecoming,” the man countered with a wave of his hand. “Of course she does. I’m sure she knew before it even happened.”

Silver did have to give him that. “Why  _ Eleanor _ ?” he asked, and took a swig of rum in case he were to smile.

“That seems to be the prevailing theory on this island. You have to admit it would be logical, yet it fails to sit right in my mind. The two of them, they have too frequently been at odds. I am therefore hoping you will enlighten me on the actual identity of this couple’s other half, and allow me to extend my sincerest apologies to the woman.”

“Hilarious.”

“I do my best.” A pause as Jack considered the man before him. “So?”

“What makes you think I know?”

“There is no one in the world closer to that Captain than you, save for this mystery wife. Nassau is my business, so I’d like to know what is happening on her shores.”

“Despite my  _ overwhelming _ desire to help you, Jack, I am afraid I am as ignorant as the next man.” 

Silver was unnaturally adept at lying, but he was also highly aware that Jack knew this. It took powerful evidence to convince Jack that any word from the Quartermaster’s mouth was truthful. He had taken a risk in cornering Silver, with no guarantee at all for finding his answer. Silver could see the frustration that caused him in the way he drummed on the table and in the way his mouth twitched. Intensely entertained, Silver only watched until Jack slid back, fixed his clothes neatly, and walked out with a gracious ‘good day’ that must have pained him a bit.

  
Smirking, Silver finished his drink and headed back to  _ The Walrus. _


	3. Breaking Over Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We apologize for the delay in updating! APs kill, friends.

Dragging himself across the beach was no small task. Every step required he lift the boot out of the sand, and then it went right back in. He was getting quicker, but it was still and arduous and agonizing process, one which compelled him to sit on the docks for a short rest before he could return to _The Walrus._

The Quartermaster sank onto the uneven wood with difficulty. Then he unbuckled the prosthesis, glowering at the gnarled flesh once it was removed. He set the falsity to his side and stretched both legs, sending shooting pain through his joints. He unfastened the twine around his hair and let it fall loose, enjoying the way the wind whispered through the strands and cooled his neck.

Sweating and spent, he squinted out into the horizon, noting which ships were afloat in the bay. Some he recognized; others must have been new crews intent on selling to the rich lords of Nassau. No wonder the tavern and streets had been so busy. Passion born of gold-lust was worse than sirens in the deep sea.

Caught in his musings, he did not hear the approach of another man until a sturdy hand was placed on his shoulder. Impulse took over and Silver snatched his fake leg to use as a weapon. Behind him, Charles Vane laughed.

“Oh, it’s you,” Silver murmured. It was the second time that day he had been caught unaware, which was disconcerting.

He adjusted his seated position to look up at Vane. The Captain was glistening tan as usual, covered in leather, and wearing a curious grin. Silver tilted his head in inquiry.

Casually, Vane replied, “I heard about the marriage. I thought congratulations were in order.”

Head reeling and breath in short supply, Silver felt as if he was suffocating. He asked squeakily, “And who informed you it was me?” Jack must have seen it in his face after all.

Charles actually looked shocked, eyes growing a bit wider before he recovered and smirked. “Technically, I suppose you just did.”

Silver wanted to grab the prosthesis and beat _himself_ with it. He ran his hands over his face, humiliated to have been so careless. And then he looked at Vane, trying to gauge a reaction. Flint would kill him if he just lost the respect of one of their most powerful pirate allies.

The only offense Vane seemed to take was that Silver thought he’d react poorly to the news. After expressing his best wishes once more, he scolded John for the character judgment. Finally, he crouched down to balance on his toes and slapped the Quartermaster on the back, nearly sending him toppling over, and quipped, “I’d buy you a drink, but you probably have better things to do.”

“People,” John corrected him slyly, and produced a toothy grin.

Charles’ laugh was subtle, a husky sound in the back of his throat that reverberated through his whole body. John had only ever seen him smile when killing someone, so he took this as a good sign. “Thank you,” he said, and the acknowledgment was sincere.

“You’re a surprising couple, but a good one.” There was a comfortable pause while Silver considered this. He was right, after all. Silver never meant to get attached to Flint. Flint had always been an adversary Silver, up until he wasn’t. The line was a hard one to follow or define.

“I do have to request you tell no one,” John said sadly. “I cannot expect every man to share your tolerance.”

“I understand. If any of my crew should behave indecently--”

“I’m sure we can handle them, but I appreciate the offer.”

Vane nodded and stood. Silver felt like he could breathe again, and watched him weave his way back out to the beach with fondness. Of the unexpected occurrences in this damn place, Charles Vane had a way of being present for most of them. The Captain remained in his sights for a while, meeting with Anne and Jack close to the treeline. Silver saw Jack gesture to him, ask about the conversation, but Vane just shook his head and clenched his jaw. Powerful ally, indeed.

It was easy to get lost in the sounds of Nassau. Men shouting, women laughing, dogs barking; barrels scraping against rough sand, the water breaking on the shore, beating the docks. Silver closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Something about the sheer chaos of it all was calming.

Someone cleared their throat behind him, but he had heard the footfalls and anticipated the sound. He turned, huffing in frustration at being interrupted again. Doctor Howell glared at him, a mixture of sympathy and frustration twisting his mouth into a scowl.

“You’re in pain.”

Silver snorted. “I’m not helpless.”

“I didn’t say that.” Unlike Vane, Howell sat beside Silver and took up the prosthesis. He fussed with it under Silver’s perturbed stare. His resilience was tested when Howell touched his leg, and he flinched, fiery anger in his chest.

“It’s clean,” Howell commented, unfazed by a bad-tempered patient. “Who cleaned it?”

“Maybe I did.”

It was Howell’s turn to snort. “And maybe I’ll take up baking instead of surgery. Was it Billy? He did well.”

Already bolstered by his interactions with Max and Vane, Silver beamed. It was exciting to trust people, to strengthen his relationships with the crew with the truth. “James helped.”

“ _James_ ?” Momentarily bewildered, Howell dropped the leg. It clattered to the deck, and he offered an apologetic frown to it before returning to Silver’s attention. “ _Oh!”_ he exclaimed. “That’s wonderful, isn’t it? All those rumors about the Captain’s marriage, it was with you.”

“Yes,” Silver said, and it felt so good just to announce it, that he had a husband and he was happy. He looked out at the glittering water, at _The Walrus,_ where he had just hours before declared himself faithful to a man he had once promised to never even like.

The Doctor’s brow furrowed, and he suddenly looked uncomfortable. He swept his long brown hair out of his eyes and then urged, “Please remind him to be careful with your leg.”

“Oh, Jesus, Howell-”

“As your primary caretaker, it is in my best interest to demand you put no unnecessary strain-”

“Stop, stop!” His hands reached out in a plea for mercy.

“I know, as newlyweds, that could impossible, but-”

Silver buried his head in his hands and felt his face heat. Ignoring him, Howell pressed on, “And should you need supplies--”

“I beg you,” Silver groaned, voice muffled. “No more.”

Howell patted him on the shoulder and stood. Eyes to the horizon and hands on his hips, he surveyed the beach and _The Walrus_. “Are you waiting for him to go back to the ship?” Silver shook his head. He hadn’t needed to ask, but he knew Flint had gone to the Barlow house. It was not his place to follow, and it was not his place to expect Flint back to escort him.

There was a darkness in that place, and James carried its companion in his soul. Silver would press on occasion; he would lie with James on their bed as the Captain whispered stories of a broken land and its cruelties. Silver, never accustomed to comforting others, gave it his best effort. Sometimes they would sleep soundly, and sometimes James had nightmares and Silver held him through them. What pieces of James had been stolen were unlikely to be returned. Captain Flint was comforted by the sounds of the sea and of his lover, and that would have to be enough for them.

Silver sighed and gave _The Walrus_ a somewhat disdainful glance. “If you would like to go, we may.”

Lifting the prosthesis from the ground, Howell offered it to Silver and smirked. “I’d like to more thoroughly examine your leg when we return, if you feel so inclined?” He phrased it as a question, but there was no denying the demand in his tone.

Silver grumbled under his breath as he reaffixed the boot to his leg, using various expletives to describe Howell that the doctor simply laughed off. Silver fastened his hair back in a ponytail and then braced himself to stand. _I cannot look weak._ He waved away the arm that was offered to him and accomplished the task with less difficulty than he had foreseen, though with more grunting and stumbling than he preferred. _I cannot feel weak._ The pair made their way to the shoreline comfortably, Howell enquiring after the leg frequently until Silver’s glares eventually silenced him. _I cannot be weak._

“You are doing well on it, but I wish you would use the crutches,” he reminded Silver.

A bemused grin crossed Silver’s face, and he patted his thigh. “Only once I lose the other one,” he responded wryly. Howell scowled.

When they reached the beach, half the crew was already there, loading weapons and food onto the longboats. Billy was directing the launches, sending men who looked like they had slept standing against the brothel’s walls across the bay with anything other than the guns. Anyone without a slur and bleary eyes was entrusted with gunpowder. Some were openly complaining about such an early launch--“Captain wouldn’t let us get in one more good fuck?”--while others packed with vigor. The sea was calling to them. Or their empty purses were sending them sprinting for more treasure.

Howell weaved through the men, inquiring after their physical welfare. Silver watched with earnest; it was his duty to care for these men just as it was the doctor’s. A few motioned discreetly to Howell, then to their sore muscles or pounding heads or aching groins. Mostly they teased the man, recounting tales of seemingly impossible sexual stunts and asking if Howell had any remedies for neverending erections. The absolute pinnacle of civilized men.

Silver made his way to a relatively empty vessel and Howell followed, chuckling under his breath. He grabbed Silver’s elbow and helped him into the boat, the laughter building. “ _What_?” Silver finally hissed, pushing a crate to the side. Raising an oar, he stared at Howell as the other man pushed the longboat into the sea and jumped aboard. He did not allow the swift spike of jealousy to fester.

The doctor could barely speak. “The men are wondering if we are leaving early so that the Captain may return to his wife, the sea goddess.”

Silver gasped in disbelief. “No.”

Howell nodded vigorously, shoulders shaking from residual laughter. With a wink to Silver, Howell raised his voice and looked to the longboats beside them. “Married! Captain Flint? Are you sure?” He did this with the most sober expression he could muster, with his teeth digging into his bottom lip and a repressed glint in his eyes.

Muldoon piped in from a boat only a few feet away, laden with barrels of rum. “Oh, yes. Must a’ happened las’ night; big ceremony--” he gestured with his hands to emphasize the enormity-- “and only nymphs as guests.” His facial expression was one of awe and longing, and no suspicion in regards to the validity of such an idea. Silver gaped.

“ _Nymphs_?” repeated the shocked Quartermaster, who had to be reminded to keep rowing by a nearly weeping Howell.

“Aye!” cried a crewman to his left. He turned as the man continued, drawing other boats toward him. “And that gen’rous goddess he married, she let him lay with all of ‘em at once! I wonder if he can still stand!” he jeered. The crew’s raucous laughter split the air. Silver felt slightly ill.

Various men began to speak over one another:

 

“ _All_ at once?”

“A man couldn’t last that long!”

“Cap’n Flint sure can, boy!”

“Do you think he’d share with--”

“I bet they stay wet longer--”

“--how big are their--”

“--wish you could get sea tail, Dobbs!”

 

Silver was overwhelmingly pleased when they finally made it back to the deck of the _Walrus_.

He could not really help unload, but he hated feeling useless, so the crew stealthily handed off the lighter burdens to him. Howell only got away with helping him to the deck by expressing his concern that the items in his hand would go overboard otherwise, and what would _The Walrus_ do without her spices? Silver accepted this with a hearty dose of skepticism and self-doubt.

Silver carried his burdens to their proper place and then joined Mr. DeGroot to go over the course one last time. They conferred briefly, DeGroot pointing and Silver nodding, mostly on ceremony. The man was certainly more experienced than he.

After DeGroot informed the Quartermaster that sail would not take long with the current winds, Silver was eager to get underway. But _The Walrus_ could not leave without her captain, so the crew paced around the ship, checking and rechecking the rigging, singing heartily, and retelling their active nights. Patient as ever, Silver elected to read.

Cervantes’ book was like a flower in his hand, precious and fragile and personal. Silver was unbearably uncomfortable settling with the crew to enjoy it. The very idea was almost obscene to him. Instead, he found a quiet place at the forecastle deck and leaned against the railing, weight on his good leg. Howell’s warnings echoed quietly in his mind and he studiously ignored them.

Hair in a loose ponytail, Silver could feel the sun burning his neck. He rubbed the skin absentmindedly, lips moving with the inscription on the first page. _To my Sea._ It felt like a sin, opening the volume--so he did so delicately, brushing his fingers over the pages like a lover, awed and utterly captivated. He ghosted his hand over the night-black ink where it settled on the creamy paper, feeling the words before he read them.

When Silver read, he lost track of time. It seemed like hours before he finally heard the crew call across the deck that Flint had returned. Yet the wind was still strong, clouds bright and high, and Silver smiled. They would be able to weigh anchor soon.

Flint caught his eye from across the deck and nodded, confirming something with Mr. DeGroot before making his way to the forecastle. His face was inscrutable even to his lover, and selfishly, Silver wished he had not visited that place of destitute and despicable reminders of the life he might have known.

Silver read aloud as Flint approached, secretly delighting in the annoyance his husband showed. His Spanish was much better than Flint’s even though they were both fluent. Caressing the page, Silver recited,  “ _…hay dos maneras de hermosura: una del alma y otra del cuerpo; la del alma campea y se muestra en el entendimiento, en la honestidad, en el buen proceder, en la liberalidad y en la buena crianza, y todas estas partes caben y pueden estar en un hombre feo; y cuando se pone la mira en esta hermosura, y no en la del cuerpo, suele nacer el amor con ímpetu y con ventajas._ ” Silver watched the muscles in Flint’s jaw jump as he looked up.

“Don’t act so smug.”

Silver feigned insult. He placed the book down gently on a crate beside him and raised his hands in the air in mock surrender. “Me?”

Flint scoffed, arms crossed. He was wringing his hands together, a way he busied himself when he could not touch Silver. Turning restlessly, he surveyed the crew; they were rushing about the ship now, completely oblivious as they secured supplies and made room now that they knew the intent of their hunt. Some of Jack’s men had been supplied, as was only fair, and the _Walrus’_ men eyed them warily when they gave orders owing to specifications of the timber. Hoping he would not be solving anymore civil skirmishes during the trip, Silver followed his gaze to the men scaling the side of the ship.

Casually, Flint remarked, “I heard I was married to a sea goddess.”

A short, half-strangled laugh that sounded more like he was being choked left Silver. “Well, goddess is a bit strong, but I do have a pretty face.” Even though his back was to Silver, he knew Flint was rolling his eyes.

“A sea goddess would be far less trouble than you,” Flint reciprocated.

“And yet, not nearly as good in bed.” Silver slouched against the ship, crossing his own arms to mirror the other man. His lip twitched. Flint was still turned away, body tense. Salt hung heavy in the air between them, salt and secrets and security.

Silver waited.

After some time, Flint joined him against the railing, a hand discreetly placed on his wrist. His face carried few of the hard lines Silver had come to know, replaced by something softer, something ineffable. When he spoke, it was with strength.

“Next time I go to that house, I want you with me.” Flint rubbed circles into his skin, looking over his shoulder before threading their fingers together. “You are not interested in the life of a pirate, one that ends when you are hanging from the gallows or hitting the bottom of the ocean. We have earned for ourselves a life more comfortable than that.” Their eyes met, and Silver could read the promise there, the hopeful yearning, and the trepidation that accompanied it. Flint did not do well with dreams when so many of his had been wasted by hatred and war.

Swallowing down any apprehension, Silver asked, “And you believe we can make that life of domesticity here? In Nassau?”

“My ruin is inevitable.”

Silver began speaking in protest, and Flint quoted the words with him. “Nothing is inevitable here.” He had taken to saying it like a mantra, whispering it to Flint in early mornings or under fuliginous nights. He smiled, licking his upper lip.

“One day, I will lay Captain Flint to rest. I would like you to be there when I do,” he resumed. Silver’s breath hitched. But he was not given a chance to respond.

Mr. DeGroot called from the deck that is was the opportune time to set sail, and the crew responded accordingly. Flint had little choice but to accede. The spell was broken, but Silver was still enamored by his husband’s declaration and request. He had to look away so his eyes would not betray him to the crew.

Beneath _The Walrus,_ the ocean was a steady push of water, waves lapping at the wood with the same exultant tension of the crew. The sea loved to send sailors across her bountiful expanse. Pirates plundered her offerings with gratitude.

“Weigh anchor!” Flint called, voice like a storm.

Walking away from Silver without another word, James became Captain Flint. He had a way of adopting the persona that both terrified and thrilled Silver. It made even the bravest men cower, fall back, and offer their piety to this man. Somehow, Flint would destroy their old gods and become their new deity, questioned but neither denied nor defied. When he spoke, men _moved,_ compelled by an overwhelming, unnatural force that survived tempests and armies and starvation. Silver finally looked at him, this man who walked the deck like he meant to eat the world raw.

  
Silver intended to be there with him when he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to anyone who does not speak Spanish! Should you be experiencing Flint-like frustration, here is the translation: there are two kinds of beauty, the one of the soul, and the other of the body; that of the soul is revealed fully through understanding, in virtue and honesty, in good living, in generosity and good breeding, all such qualities can be found to be in a homely man; and when such beauty, not the physical one, becomes the object of desire, then love only bears more impetus, focus, and exactitude of purpose.


	4. A Thousand Miles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a longer one! We apologize profusely for the wait. But we have finally graduated, so this fic SHOULD be updated regularly (once a week) until it is done. Thank you for sticking with it :)

The sea offered the crew of _The Walrus_ a steady wind, offered the smell of salt and the taste of adventure.

It reminded them they were home.

Silver paced the deck leisurely, exercising but not overextending the leg. Or that was his excuse. In truth, it was bothering him, but he wanted to be near the crew. Something akin to pride swelled in him when he watched them.

It was an easy day of sailing; the weather was good, and their information was true. _The Walrus_ would likely overtake its intended target, a merchant ship on its maiden voyage, in less than a week. Mr. DeGroot had estimated four days, and Silver prayed he was right. Any more, and Flint would itch for destruction.

The land had corrupted him, but the depth of Flint’s danger emerged on the open ocean. The Captain was reckless--sometimes Silver was inclined to think insane--and the longer he spent hunting, the longer he spent believing he had good reason to die. James Flint flirted with the death like an ocean with a shore. When calm, he brushed it gently, enough to make it aware it could destroy him if he let it. Sometimes, though, Silver was afraid he was prepared to crash into it wickedly, intent on killing Death before it could reach him.

Silver watched him now, standing on deck. Flint was gesturing to the topsail, mouth set in frustration. The riggers with whom he was conversing looked positively petrified. The snarl on the Captain’s lips was not compelling them to be any more useful; if anything, the adrenaline contributed to further blunders. Silver found a crate and lowered himself, chuckling under his breath.

Lost in watching Flint traverse the deck and intimidate his crew, Silver barely registered Dooley, Joji, Muldoon, and a few new recruits approach. They settled on the deck around him, plates in hand. Dooley offered one to him. “Breakfast,” he offered by way of explanation through a mouthful of what Silver assumed were potatoes.

He poked at them with his fork. Potatoes. He never wanted to see another goddamn potato in his life.

With a sigh, he ate the thing anyway, watching his crewmates consume their breakfasts with relish. They were unusually silent, casting tacit questions at each other with anything but discretion. Used to solidarity in the mornings, Silver was concerned this meant trouble for the ship. Typically, he was cornered so covertly for one reason alone: rumors of mutiny.

Instead, one of the new mates--Silver thought he might be one of their youngest now, a kid barely passed sixteen years named Jasper--spoke around a mouthful of food. “If ‘ta Captain got ‘imself a governess wife, don’t t’at mean we’ll get pardoned, Mr. Silver, sir?” Silver was so taken aback by the use of ‘mister’ and ‘sir’ that he ignored the other pirates looking at him earnestly. He opened his mouth, only to be interrupted by Dooley.

“We were offered pardons once before, lad. Believe me, that notion isn’t in the Captain’s head.” The other men mumbled dejected statements of agreement. Silver smiled, satisfied. It was not that he thought they would lay the search for Flint’s wife to rest, but that he thought himself removed from the unremitting rumor discussion.

He was wrong. They crew was expecting an answer from their Quartermaster. After he had crushed the sea goddess rumor the previous night--“Nymphs do not exist, the Captain is not married to a goddess, please bring more credibility to this vessel”--it was only a matter of time before he would be brought the latest inquiries. It had not escaped them that he was closer to Flint than anyone, but they had not yet caught onto the depth of that.

There was more potato-eating. Silver eyed his with disdain and pushed them around with his fork. He could almost hear the men thinking, considering the women they knew and their compatibility with the dreaded Captain Flint. A sharp inhale meant one of them was about to offer another name.

“Maybe he married one of the whores! Is that it, Silver?”

Exhaling, Silver felt an absurd swell of jealousy. “I’d say our Captain has more refined taste than that,” he sneered. He knew it was unfair, but the reaction felt reasonably justified.

“There are some beautiful women on that island, love,” Muldoon replied. An excited chorus of ‘yes’ and ‘damn beautiful women’ rang around the circle. Silver attempted a smile and failed miserably. He disguised the mistake by rubbing his leg and shifting as if the position exacerbated it.

“I don’t think--” but he was drowned out by theories, names, fantasies. Perturbed and more than slightly resentful, Silver muttered an uneasy ‘excuse me’ and readied himself to stand.

He froze when he heard a man name Max. It was so absurd that he meant to laugh, but his denial of the bet came out harsher than intended. “He did not marry _Max_ , or any whore for that matter.”

Jasper brightened. “So you _do_ know.”

“I did not say that.”

“Then ow’d you know it ain’t Max?”

“I--” _I am not used to be unnerved so easily,_ he thought. His heart and his mind battled over which got to answer. In the end, of course, his rationality reigned victorious. “She, too, inquired after the Captain’s marriage. And she had no ring.”

The disappointment shared by the crew was visible in the way their shoulders slumped and arms crossed. They shared sour glances and mumbled despairingly, some even handing money to others. Silver coughed.

He did not know why he was surprised, but he found himself gesturing lamely to the exchange of coin, brow furrowed. “You’re _betting_?”

“Do you want to join?” Muldoon shook the cloth purse. Inside, coins clicked noisily, jostled by the movement.

Silver attempted to act offended. “Me? I’m far too attached to my life to do something so senseless.”

“The Captain won’t find out,” another man insisted.

“He meant far too attached to his money,” Muldoon corrected, snickering. “Silver’d marry his coin purse if he could.” The men laughed fondly, adding final bets to the pool as Silver’s lip curled in an unamused smile.

A companionable silence enveloped them as they finished their meals, stomachs protesting the conversation. A recent hunt had enabled them to restock well--an unplanned taking of a merchant vessel earned the crew of _The Walrus_ a jewel cache intended for royalty--and provisions had been the primary focus of the reward. Silver had suggested they invest in more harpoons for shark-catching.

The men had not been particularly receptive to that idea.

Setting his plate down, Silver squinted against the brilliant light assaulting the ship. It was so hot he wondered if the sea should not dry out. Even the steady wind was dry. He gestured to Jasper to pass him the water jug and drank slowly, allowing some of the water to flow down his chin.

And then he had an idea.

“So, if we’re wrong and the Captain tells us, who gets the money?”

Muldoon blinked at him. Mouth still half-full, he said, “I guess it’d be the Captain.” Silver bit the inside of his cheek against a laugh.

“My money’s on the sea goddess, then.”

…

 

Silver had nearly completed _Los trabajos de Persiles y Sigismunda_ by the dusk of their first day out. It was not difficult to find time to himself with a crew disinterested in mutiny and no English naval vessels chasing them.  The wind nipped pleasantly at their faces. The night was settling in around them, chasing off the warmth of the day for something brisker, something more suited to the sea. But it was not yet dark enough for Silver to miss Flint traversing the deck, checking the ropes and knots with the air of an officer. The Captain studied his hand and the ring that nestled on his finger. It didn’t seem new, or unexpected. It seemed right.

Closing the novel, Silver tucked it under his arm and made his way to the hold. Howell had instructed--well, more cornered him after breakfast that morning and ordered--to either meet him there or have the prosthesis ripped off and tossed into the sea. As both were almost certain to end in the use of crutches, he had momentarily considered the latter, if only because it would have been more dramatic. He quite enjoyed the idea of Howell’s shocked face as the bloody thing went to swim with the sharks.

Being examined was uncomfortable every time. Sitting on the table with the doctor kneeling in front of him, Silver stared at the wall, finding shapes in the wood. Gnarled knots that reflected the twisted flesh of the loathed stump. He scowled. Howell was professional and adept, but the sting of the metal and reminder of his limb’s absence was not overshadowed by the careful hands of a friend. Silver cursed frequently, not only out of pain but out of annoyance. The doctor did his best to sound comforting, which only upset him further.

“I am not a child,” Silver finally snapped.

Howell chuckled. “Says the person telling me to go fuck myself every time I suggest methods of pain reduction.”

“It would certainly relieve some of your tension.”

“Mm.” The man poked at Silver’s leg once more before sighing and straightening. He wiped his instruments on a white cloth and placed them in his kit, mouth quirked. “It looks much better, but it would be almost healed if you did not insist on using the prosthesis so frequently. That constant irritation--”

Silver waved away the remainder of his words. “Pulls the skin off, yes, yes, I know. I can feel it.”

Howell appraised him, eyebrows raised and hands on his hips. “Then it escapes me why--”

“Because he is too proud to be seen relying on anything but himself.”

Howell turned away, muttering about never being able nor allowed to finish a sentence, and let Silver roll his eyes at Flint. The Captain gripped the beam above his husband and went to the edge of the table. He stood between Silver’s thighs and placed a hand on his waist. Silver blinked at him, glancing toward Howell’s back.

“He thanked me for cleaning your leg this morning,” Flint said, bringing his hand to rest against Silver’s neck. “I gathered you told him.”

“I apologize if I was out of place, sir, “ Howell added as he turned back around, not sounding at all sorry. He placed an ointment next to Silver but maintained eye contact with the Captain, voice lifting ever so slightly with nerves. Silver almost laughed as he imagined the morning’s interaction, a bumbling Howell spouting out a random thanks to a hard-faced, malicious Captain.

Flint shook his head and drew Silver’s hand forward to place a small kiss on his knuckles, unconcerned with discretion around the doctor. “It was appropriate, if unexpected.” Silver snorted, recalling his own conversation with Howell on the beach. Flint cocked his head, and Howell coughed.

“I simply offered, well, supplies.” He did not seem embarrassed by the conversation at all, simply wary of his captain.

Flint glared, lethal.

Affecting shame, Howell’s voice was laden with sarcasm.  “Oh, that would be outside the realm of appropriate for me, a physician. I am _so_ sorry.” Smirking, he busied himself with cleaning his tools and packing his bag, back turned to the pair. Silver took the opportunity to lean onto his lover, arms around Flint’s hips and head to his chest. He felt a gentle weight as Flint settled his chin on the top of Silver’s head. Closing his eyes, he let himself enjoy the warmth of his lover and ignored the burn of his leg, furiously red and exposed.

“I will not use those things,” he stated, and meant it.

“I know,” Flint replied, and meant it.

He pulled his head back and looked down at the stump, hands coming to rest on the table on either side of himself. Without needing to be asked, Flint grabbed the prosthesis from the floor and placed it next to Silver. Face still, he waited until it was secured to move, although his eyes revealed his desire to do more. A hand was offered, and Silver took it, sliding from the table to the floor easily with the support.

The wound throbbed dully. At times like this, it was background noise, lost to the feel of his palm pressed to his husband’s. It still felt faded when Flint released him and turned to grab the item Howell had placed next to Silver.

“This is for his leg?”

“No.”

Flint smiled.

“Good God,” Silver groaned, making his way to the stairs. He paused to look back at his doctor and husband, a knot forming in the pit of his stomach as he realized they were going to remain behind to discuss him. Teeth gritted, he said, “I am going to join the crew. Perhaps they have more decency than the two of you.”

“Doubtful!” Howell called after him.

Of course, Silver knew the man was right, especially as he made it to the deck and heard the drunken calls of bored pirates. Doing his best not to limp, Silver made his way over to the circle the crew had made and sat near the edge of it on a rather uncomfortable crate. He watched them, a smile creeping onto his face.

Jasper was speaking emphatically, gesticulating wildly as he told his tale. The men looked a mixture between entertained and profoundly bored. Some of his younger peers clapped him on the shoulder encouragingly, and winced privately when he continued.

“So ‘en ‘is mad ghos’ jus’ jumps up an’ down a’hollerin’ and a’whoopin’ ‘bou how ol’ Cap’n Riley ‘ad killed ‘im, an’ the crew is a’hollerin’ and a’whoopin’ righ’ back somefin fierce--”

“Sounds like their brains were jus’ as cooked as yours, mate!” a crewman in the back yelled. Silver could not discern his face, but he was fairly certain it was Dobbs, that cock.

Jasper looked as sullen as a stray puppy. Muldoon tugged gently on his shirtsleeve and the boy plopped down on the deck cross-legged. His pout rivaled even Max’s when she had had to use such tactics to get what she wanted. Like her, perhaps he would learn to take it.

For now, however, a new crewman stepped to the middle of the circle, face aglow in the moonlight. He pulled his features into a ghastly grimace, drawing a few uncomfortable chuckles from the men.

“It was a dark and stormy night--”

The reactions were immediate. “Boo! Sit down, sit down!” “Let him speak!” Each was yelled with the drunken, benevolent ferocity of pirates, the sounds clamoring over each other. Silver watched from his forgotten corner, arms crossed and eyes focused on the storyteller.

Once they had hushed--which took a damn long time, during which even more rum was passed around and consumed--he started again.

“On this dark and stormy night,” he emphasized with a glare at the original protester, “a young maiden and her lover were out on the beach. Picture her, lads, with the wind and water whipping her hair about her pale face, her lips full and red with the bite of it.” There was a collective sigh here. “And they’ve got the lighting drowning away their calls to each other, until they reach one spot on the sand that is utterly silent, and none of the elements can reach them.”

Leaning toward him, the crew was perfectly transfixed now. Silver glanced toward Flint, , recently emerged and hidden away in the shadows, whose eyes flitted across his husband and then back to the crew. He did not seem as interested in the story as he was in the men’s responses to it.

“The maid grips her lad, whispering that she is frightened and wants to go. But try as they might, they can’t seem to find where this ring of nothingness ends. They’re trapped. But suddenly, they look to the shoreline, and they see a little boat floating, half in and half out of the water. Desperation clings to them tighter than their soaked clothes, and they rush to it, pushing it out into the ocean without a moment’s hesitation.”

“As they row out, the wind and the rain still don’t return. Her face is wet only because she’s been crying. And her wails tear through that circle of nothingness, and his anguished and soon madly enraged shouts for her to stop boom into the night. And you see, lads… The storm had gotten inside them, and now they were doomed forever to give it to others, because they had taken it. She’s the wind and the rain, and he’s the thunder, with the oars slapping across the water bright enough to make lightning. If you listen closely next time the sea goddess gives us her wrath, you just might hear that maid, and then her hitched breathing when she runs out of air and the tempest passes…”

“What’re you, a fucking poet?” Dobbs bit into a stale roll with malice. “Someone tell a decent story or I’ll toss myself into that little tempest maid of yours, give her something to wail about.” He grabbed his groin for emphasis, and hidden amongst the jeers was a hearty _tsk_ of disgust from Silver.

“Well there’s, there’s the Cock Lane Ghost.” Howls of laughter greeted Dooley. He scrunched his nose and continued, “Come on, I heard it on Nassau.”

“Give it a chance!”

“Go ahead, Dooley.”

Taking a deep breath, he grinned and began, “Alright, so this gentleman, William Kent--and mind you, this is a true story--anyway, his wife died. So he took up with her sister, Fanny. And they moved to Cock Lane--”

More snorts. Dooley sucked his teeth. “ _Anyway_ , they moved there, and it was owned by Kent’s wife’s father. They heard strange knocking noises every day that only stopped when Kent and Fanny left. But then Fanny died, too--”

There were protests. “How’d she die?” “That’s not fair!” “Get on with it!”

“--so the knocking continued, worse. Scratching, knocking, ghost sightings. They started talking to her, with this knocking system, yeah? And turns out Kent murdered her! Poisoned her with arsenic.” He crossed his arms smugly.

Dobbs seemed to be the only one unconvinced. He scratched his chin and stood, stretching his back and groaning. “That’s awful, that is. Give me a real tale!”

“Why don’t you tell one, then?” Silver hadn’t meant to encourage it, but the words slipped out, caustic and taunting. Dobbs sneered at him before spreading his arms wide, a dark smile spreading over his face.

“Alright, then, you miserable fucks. Here’s a real one.” He took his place in the center of the circle, and the men crowded around him eagerly.

Silver glanced to where Flint had been and found him missing, likely having retired to his quarters for a quiet drink and his maps. That, or he was attempting to surreptitiously better his Spanish--Silver had caught him over a grammar book, mouthing the words with _Don Quixote_ open in front of him. He had teased him for it; Flint had refused his help in the matter. But he still heard him at night, muttering phrases to himself.

He didn’t have the heart to correct him.

By the time his attention returned to Dobbs, Silver had missed the start of the story. However, as he heard it progress, he realized he already knew it.

“--they shot her in the head, in the chest, it didn’t matter, she kept coming, kept chanting her spells. So the few brave men in the room grabbed her and held her down, put wood in her mouth to stop that infernal chanting, and carved out her wicked heart. Only then did she quiet. They say Captain Flint went all in a rage then, the spell on him finally lifted. He knew he was mortal now, though, so he went quietly. Had that trial in the New World. That’s why Vane had to rescue him, yeah. He didn’t have the witch’s help.”

He was embellishing, but the story was the same. Flint had entrusted it to him even before they were together as a necessary step in their relationship. In turn, Silver had finally described the torture to him, biting back tears. But those were their horrors, not the crew’s.

“She didn’t die, though. Not in the New World, and not in this one, neither. That Barlow woman became a ghost, skulking ‘round that big ol’ house until Flint dragged her onto this vessel ‘n married her. So every time you hear a creaking ‘round your hammock, that’s her, looking for a soul to eat.”

As Dobbs let his words hang, Silver assessed the crew. Jasper was stricken mute, face pallid. Some of the men who had been there were glancing at him nervously, while others nodded, preferring this ghost story to the truth.

Silver felt sick.

Heavy bootsteps approached the circle of men, and Silver snapped his attention to Captain Flint. He did not look murderous, which was almost worst. He simply looked… numb. Blackness swallowed his hollow eyes. The words that left his mouth carried the same tone, though with a grit behind them only attainable by a man who knew he could kill if he wanted to.

“I will carve _your_ heart from your wretched body if you mention her name again.”

Silence hung in the air, louder than any of the laughter the men had produced on that deck only moments before. Waves slapped the boat and the wind whistled forlornly, crying into the night in a wail that sent shivers up Silver’s spine.

The Captain’s chest was heaving. He was a stone statue, crumbling. Though his stance was strong, his body poised powerfully, there was a subtle line of defeat in his shoulders. A shaking in his fingers unable to be attributed to anger. It was in this instant Silver wished he could not read his husband so well, because the pain was unbearable. Looking at Flint tore Silver apart from the inside like a thousand monsters clawing their way out of his heart.

A thin snarl was all Flint could offer to Dobbs, but it was enough to turn the man ashen. Head bowed, he muttered a terrified apology and fled clumsily. The rest of the crew did not even stop to speak; their bottles and spaces were abandoned in a sudden rush of men fearing for their lives or limbs. In less time than Silver considered possible, the deck was clear, save for himself, Flint, and Howell. The Doctor spared them one glance before reaching out to touch Flint’s shoulder. Thinking better of it, he let his arm hang in the air before turning away with a long sigh. He retreated below deck.

Silver knew there was something broken inside his lover, something irreparable caused by countless betrayals and beatings. That kind of irreversible damage was marrow deep and ached like a broken bone unhealed. So he watched Flint sink onto a crate adjacent to him and hang his head in his hands, a cracked, high-pitched noise clamoring out of his throat before he managed to stifle it. A single tear ran over his lips as if hushing him, and he closed them at the taste. He blinked up at the moon. James and Silver sat together, looking and not looking at each other, until the sun painted the sky a pale pink and the stars had vanished.

And then the day began, and Captain Flint returned to _The Walrus_.

 

…

 

The first storm of their voyage was a short, albeit uncomfortable one. Silver spent much of it in the cabin, huddled in the window bed, ignoring his leg, watching the waves roll. He could hear shouts around _The Walrus_. He had volunteered to help when the storm began, but after nearly getting crushed by a loose barrel when he could not move fast enough, Flint had confined him to his quarters. He felt useless. But it was not wholly unpleasant; he was wearing one of Flint’s tunics, fresh and warm unlike his own soaking garments. And the rocking of the ship was like a lullaby, rhythmic and predictable.

Still, one of the topsails was catching, and they were going to be blown wildly off course unless someone fixed it. Billy, resolute and resilient, had been on his way up when Silver had exited the deck.

A crack of thunder was followed by the creak of the door, and Flint stumbled in, feet splayed for balance. Silver smiled at him, rain-soaked and stunning. The water beating against the window was almost as wild as Flint’s returned smirk.

The storm had put the _Walrus’_ Captain in quite a mood. Sparing one glance to the open door, he rushed forward and seized Silver in his arms, ignoring all protests on account of how soaked he was. They were shallow words and Flint knew it. His frenetic kisses warmed them both enough, anyway. After a last kiss, Silver shifted to allow Flint a space beside him, and they sat in companionable silence with their hands brushing, observing the storm outside.

Muldoon came rushing down a minute later, so wet it seemed someone had thrown him overboard. He looked slightly manic, and Silver grinned welcomingly.

“Billy’s done it, Cap’n! And the thing’s passin’ on, soon, I’d wager. But the crew thought you’d want your own look at the rigging, ah, just to be safe.” Silver stifled a sigh. The crew had been on edge, dancing around Flint on light feet, fawning and double-checking, since the infamous night of ghost stories.

Instead of pleasure, Flint’s expression was one of outrage. He stiffly and gloomily withdrew from his husband, relaxing only when he confirmed Muldoon had seen nothing. The glare he fixed Muldoon was not one for which Silver envied the other man. “I need navigational charts,” he finally said. “Move,” he ordered, and Muldoon scratched the back of his neck before awkwardly shifting to the side. Flint stomped to the chaos upstairs.

“You’re certain he didn’t marry a witch, John?” Muldoon asked nervously, watching Flint’s retreating form. “Only a vicious woman could make a man that unhappy.”

Silver laughed under his breath. “Shouldn’t you join him?” he inquired after a beat, gesturing the way Flint had gone.

“Ah, right you are, then. I’ll see you at dinner.” He seemed more scared of Captain Flint than the tempest on the sea.

  
Both, Silver supposed, were willing to eat men alive.


	5. Peaceful in the Deep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We apologize for the wait! We experienced an extreme upheaval in our lives, and it just couldn't be done. But fear not- we plan to finish this before the month is out! We owe to all you lovely readers. Thank you for all the comments, kudos, bookmarks, and subscriptions. You keep us writing!

Silver felt strangely fond as he surveyed the Walrus’ crew. Men were smashed shoulder to shoulder at the tables, elbowing each other as they shoveled the late dinner into their mouths. Raucous laughter, shouts, belches, scraping feet; the noise was chaotic yet familiar. Comforting, in a way. Still, he felt ostracized, too fearful of his secrets to confide in his friends. It made him weary.

 

A plate in one hand and a bottle of rum in the other, Silver staggered over to his usual seat. Muldoon jumped up to grab his dinnerware and set them down before helping the Quartermaster settle. It had taken a long time to manage sitting at the benches, and the men had given him the end-seat to give his leg the necessary room. The whole arrangement had been unspoken, an overnight action just like the ropes traversing the ship’s deck. He smiled.

 

It was not long before the liquor had been distributed and he had chicken on his fork. It was a bit tough, but the day’s work and accompanying hunger were enough to make anything a culinary masterpiece. He chewed and listened to sundry conversations spoken in accents just as varied.

 

Unsurprisingly, rumors of the Captain’s marriage were abundant. With Flint taking supper in his quarters, the crew did not fear for their lives when discussing his mystery lover.

 

Silver chuckled at the usual suggestions; whores and harpies and mermaids. Nothing seemed off-limits to the crew’s imaginations. Often he wondered if they would ever come close to the truth, if anyone had ever grown suspicious of he and Flint’s nocturnal rendezvous and apparent intimacy.

 

BIlly alone glanced up with sparkling eyes. He smirked from behind his cup whenever he caught Silver nodding along to another absurd theory. They flew as fast as sails in a storm and were swayed just as easily.

 

“What d’you think, Silver?”

 

He turned to the voice. Muldoon was looking at him eagerly, awaiting the input of their esteemed Quartermaster. Billy snorted but quickly disguised it with a cough before excusing himself from the table. Silver’s eyes noted his betrayal with mirth.

 

“Are you inquiring again as to if I have a proposal regarding Captain Flint’s spouse?”

 

Most of the side conversations had ceased. When Silver spoke, he seemed to compel the crew to silence, if only so they could hear the latest gossip at meals. Dobbs grunted, followed by a grumbled, “Well, you got somethin’ new or not?”

 

A pause. “I do, in fact.”

 

He let the words settle in the air, fall to the men’s ears, and play with their brains. He had not intended to begin something like this, but now that he had, it was too entertaining to stop.

“I heard... “ Silver leaned in close for dramatic effect, causing craned necks and shuffling as men scurried closer. He bit back a laugh, took a deep breath. This was a tentative but crucial step. “I think he married Charles Vane.”

Someone snorted, but they noticed Silver’s sincere expression and the sound died away, replaced by the crewman’s murmurs. Among these, he could hear the word ‘sodomite’ shared bitterly, and he bristled. Muldoon seemed cheerfully contemplative.

“No surprise there,” Dobbs spat.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Muldoon reciprocated, glancing at the man. Silver cocked his head.

Dobbs shrugged. “Just that it makes sense he’d be like that.”

“Like what?”

“A buggerer, you daft fucker.”

Dooley shifted closer to the group, shaking his head. “Not that there’s something wrong with that, right, Dobbs?”

“Plenty wrong with that!” Someone interjected from a corner. The men around him grabbed him and shoved his head toward his plate, chiding him for his idiocy as they nodded for Silver to elaborate. Silver barely suppressed a grin--which was made easier when he caught Dobbs raising his glass in accession.

Muldoon shook his head in innocent objection. “But Silver’s like that.”

Silver’s mouth fell open like a dead fish, and he turned to Billy, eyes dark. Helping himself to more stew, the other man raised his bowl in a placating gesture. Around them, most of the other men nodded as they turned back to their meals, controversy forgotten. A brief fire flared behind Dobb’s eyes before he looked down, lip twitching. Silver blinked in awe of the respect he had earned from the crew. He was proud to be regarded so significantly among them, and it made him bold. Billy could tell and shook his head almost imperceptibly before practically inhaling the remainder of his dinner. 

Before retiring, he returned to the table and tossed the updated navigational course papers at Silver. Billy had learned that Jack had taken care to specify each type of wood, complete with detailed descriptions, that was on the intended ship. He shook his head at it. “The man is too smart for his own good.” Silver agreed.

 

Once they were more alone, Muldoon turned to Silver, worry covering his face. Voice low, he said, “I did not mean to do that, I…” He trailed off, unable to really articulate what it was he meant. Silver clasped his shoulder, shaking his head.

“No, actually, I--I appreciate it. Thank you.”

Muldoon’s face lit in a grin. He toasted his rum with Silver’s, which led to more drinking. And more. Silver felt warmth in each inch of his skin when he stumbled away from the dining area to the captain’s cabin.

Silver limped into the cabin slowly, the new course for their target in his right hand. He wore a charming, rakish grin as he beheld his Captain, who sat scowling at him from behind the desk.

“Today the crew has decided that you are married to Charles Vane!” he announced gleefully after shutting the door. A slur featured prominently.

He rested down against the wall with a grateful exhale and fixed mischievous eyes on Flint before turning his gaze to the document with him.

“Bullshit.” Flint’s grumble pulled him from his musings. “You planted that one.”

Silver grinned at the cursive writing on the page, barely legible through his drunken haze. “Yes, I did.”

They shared a laugh, Silver’s more complacent as he listened to the low rumble of of his lover’s amusement. His smile reached his green eyes, the corners crinkled and stunningly beautiful. Silver leered, the paper forgotten in his hand. Their eyes met, and Flint’s delight instantly morphed into yearning. He slid out his chair and approached John slowly, never breaking the intense contact. By the time he reached his partner and laid a hand on his shoulder, John was flushed and eager to comply.

“They also found out I like men,” he murmured under the weighted stare of those eyes.

“I should hope so.” Flint nudged John’s knees apart and stood between them.

“I’m not here to discuss the manifest, am I?” he asked, and the answer was clear in the way Flint slid a finger down his throat and rested his palm in the hollow of his collarbone.

“In my knowledge,” Flint said, unbuttoning Silver’s shirt, exposing more of his sensitive skin, “Most couples are granted more time alone after their marriage.”

 

The combination of Flint’s words and touch was almost unbearable. Silver gasped, parting in his lips just enough to draw his lover’s gaze, and soon after, his mouth. 

Flint did not waste his time undressing Silver--the gentle caress of a hand following cloth was unnecessary, and did not address the explosive heat building between them. But he did not remove the prosthesis, and Silver briefly wondered why until he felt hands under his thighs, lifting him and slamming him against the cabin door.

He would need the support.

Silver dragged his nails down his lover’s back, a groan building in his throat as Flint stepped out of his own trousers and readied himself. Silver’s chest constricted watching him, and he moaned, body aching to be touched. He felt his feet lift off the floor--and then Flint was inside him, hands and hips the only thing keeping Silver from falling. A loud cry ripped from his throat, and Flint crushed his lips against Silver’s hard enough to bruise. Silver hoped they did.

The pain easily shifted into a pleasing roughness, something Silver thought Flint would never give him again. He wrapped his arms around Flint’s shoulders, incessant pleads falling from his lips. The door shook behind him; shook with each breath he took, shook with each thrust of Flint’s hips. Silver closed his eyes and let his head fall back, unable to do anything but  _ feel _ . Lips were on his neck, his collar. Hands on his thighs and hips and waist, holding him up and holding Flint in. When Flint’s mouth met his again, he could not maintain the kiss--his mouth opened in countless gasps and whimpers. It took Silver all he had not to scream when he came, teeth gritting and toes curling as he fisted his hands in his husband’s shirt.

Silver growled, already trembling from over-stimulation, but pulled Flint closer. “Don’t you dare stop,” he hissed in Flint’s ear. He didn’t.

Silver’s entire body was on fire when Flint finally spent himself. He took deep breaths, gulping in the night air. Shuddering when Flint pulled out of him, he tried to right himself and felt his legs give out. Flint, however, caught Silver before he could stumble, and wrapped his arms around his waist. He was all but lifted from the floor again; all of his weight was supported by Flint, and he was being practically dragged to ensure minimal stress on his leg.

Silver laughed and let himself be guided to their bed, the sweat tracing his unsteady muscles reason enough not to protest being taken care of.

“Stay there,” Flint ordered once Silver was settled. He stood and pulled his shirt off, tossing it to the floor, and then walked to the dresser. A towel was in his hands when he returned. Smirking, he threw it in Silver’s face.

 

Silver laughed, a full sound that involved tossing his head back and shaking. He cleaned himself as best he could without running water. Flint was accomplishing the same task a couple feet away, casting him amused grins, but also anxious glances at the unlocked door.

“We cannot lock it,” Silver said lamely.

Flint nodded his assent, though he seemed troubled. Silver interjected his thoughts. “I can sleep elsewhere--”

“You most certainly will  _ not. _ ” His resolute tone offered no resistance, but Silver had no desire to make another suggestion. “However,” the Captain continued morosely, “we will need to continue sleeping in separate beds.”

“James,” Silver called him to protest, but this had been their routine since setting sail, and Flint was nothing if not stubborn. 

Silver exhaled angrily, though the action felt immature. This was the most practical arrangement, and it had worked so far, yet he was so very tired of it.

Separating brought forth a barrage of unsatisfactory feelings. There was the apathy--that he couldn’t care less if the crew found them wrapped around each other--but also the anger--at Flint, for keeping them a secret--and finally the guilt--lying to the crew for whom he swore to be an honest man. Flint saw this shadow cross his face, darker even than the shadows dancing over the cabin floor, and gestured for his husband. Silver did as he was bid, still fully unclothed but undoubtedly spent for the night.

He was already sore, but he managed the couple feet between him and his lover. As soon as he reached Flint, the Captain brought him closer, melding their bodies together in one tight embrace. He breathed his Quartermaster in, the smell of sweat and sex and the sea, his nose buried in Silver’s neck. Silver smiled and allowed his weight be supported fully by Flint.

“One day, we’ll be free,” Flint promised. “I know it.” Silver pulled back slightly and could see the fervor and determination in his eyes.

They kissed, a careful declaration of love and hope for their future. The heat was gone, replaced by something softer and sweeter. Despite that he was balancing Silver, Flint clung to him like he was his lifeline.

“I’m going to make final rounds with the crew, make sure the watch is set,” Silver whispered when they finally parted. “You should sleep.”

Flint’s mouth quirked into a tiny grin, and he grumbled over Silver giving him orders before placing one last chaste kiss to his lips and sliding away to the hammock. Silver watched him settle in, knowing his face was foolish and lovestruck. He then gathered up his clothes, aching muscles protesting as he wrestled on his pants and shirt. When he looked back at Flint, the Captain was watching him with his hands behind his head, quietly appreciative.

 

Blushing, Silver finally tied his hair back up, bid his lover a good night, and opened the cabin door.

Muldoon was waiting for him.

“Oh, thank the heavens, you’re alive!” Muldoon yelled, and rushed Silver before the Quartermaster could register a coherent thought. His pulse was racing, eyes wide with shock and  panic, but Muldoon’s grin was wider than the ocean itself.

“Why would I not be?” Silver inquired. Muldoon was still hugging him tightly, but withdrew to give him a once-over. Satisfied with Silver’s condition, he stepped back.

“You dropped one of the navigational papers, so I thought I’d get it to ya, but when I got here, it sounded like you and the Cap’n was having a row. And I wanted to help, mate, honestly I did, but the door was shakin’ and I thought he was killin’ ya!”

Silver was thankful for the dark, because it hid his continually reddening face. “Oh, oh yes,” he stammered when Muldoon gave him a chance to speak. “Mad about the missing page, you see. He can get awfully enraged about that.”

“You comin’ for final rounds, then?”

“Yes, and I’ll take that before I get another beating, Muldoon.” He pocketed the final document, hoping his friend could not see the shaking of his hands.

“Brilliant! You see, some of the crew--”

“You told them?” His voice pitched much higher than he had intended.

“Right certain I did. We were about to get up in arms for you, most of us. Anyway, some of ‘em placed some bets, so you gotta give us the whole story, nothing out, but maybe if it matched mine a bit, see, I’d get the coins I need for new shoes…”

They made their way to the deck, Silver listening to Muldoon rattle on as he desperately composed yet another fiction for his friends. Billy was in stitches by the end. Muldoon collected enough money to buy an entire outfit, and Dobbs was miserable the whole time.

Silver couldn’t have imagined a better way to end his night.

...

 

Having been offered the prospect of a male spouse, the crew now had no shortage of ideas. Every man had now contributed to the betting pool; Silver's money was still on the sea goddess. All of it went to Flint if they were unable to guess anyway, so he was comfortable lightening his purse for the cause.

Most had moved on from Charles. Those who had not claimed he was the only one aggressive and emotionally unsound enough to counter the captain. The crew called them blood and fire, a coupling that would bring ruin to the high seas.

Silver tried to ignore them. He watched the blue sky fade into the blue ocean and promised himself it was his and Flint’s to rule.

When the sails of the Spanish timber vessel were finally in sight, the men became fixated on one another. Anytime Flint had something approaching a positive interaction with one of the men, his mates flocked to him once the captain was out of earshot. It was so absurd that Silver could not even bring himself to refute it. He simply let them carry on, pacing the deck and shouting orders and listening to more rumors as they neared their prize. They were mere hours out.

Flint approached him, a half-smile on his face. Catching his husband’s eye, he cocked his head toward the most recent group, which included Billy. The man was rubbing his eye, face tilted toward the sun in a mixture of amusement and annoyance. Silver laughed heartily before he could help it, tugging on Flint’s sleeve as he passed. Glancing over his shoulder, Flint leaned in and whispered, “As if I could love someone else.” Silver scoffed and rolled his eyes, but his breath stuttered a bit as the Captain retreated.

“What’re you laughing about?” Billy called to Silver, drawing him toward the group.

They waited patiently while he dragged himself over, his eyes casting between the Spanish vessel and his crew. They were giddy with the hunt, but there was something else, something mischievous in their eyes, and he stared at them warily when he finally reached them.

“Maybe because he’s keepin’ his nuptials a secret!” said the nearest crewmen, and surged forward dramatically to point an accusatory finger at Silver’s chest.

Because it mattered more than he cared to admit, Silver did hesitate to burst to into laughter, which he proudly cleared of any nerves. Billy laughed along with him, even hitting his chest and doubling over. Flint, from the forecast deck, turned his sharp eyes to the crowd, and the crewman scattered around the  _ Walrus  _ who remained uninvolved in the madness gave them skeptical looks but minded their own business. The story would spread when they dined anyway.

“That’s absurd!” Billy shouted through his hysteria.”Oh, that’s the worst I’ve heard!”

 

Silver assented with a clap on the back of the crewman who had hypothesized the romance. His reddening face and apologetic smile calmed Silver exponentially. “An honest mistake, lad,” he commented genuinely. He laughed again. “Can you actually imagine that? Flint would have thrown me overboard at the mere suggestion.” Silver was thankful every day that he hadn’t. The Quartermaster cleared his throat. “We have some preparations to attend to! Billy, get those sails up--I want us flying!”

“Yes, Sir!” Billy affirmed. They made eye contact quickly, a tacit communication of thanks, before the men dispersed and readied for the grueling chase. 

…

No matter the clear weather, catching up to a ship designed for evading pirates was always difficult. But Flint had an uncanny ability to raise the black at the ideal time, and the vessel chose life over pride. Silver felt himself sigh in relief as they came to its side; he was not interested in another fight, another day of standing on the deck shooting men on the other ship, another reason to worry about his husband.

Yet something felt wrong, and Silver worried his bottom lip as he watched his crew jump to the Spanish vessel. Flint was the last to cross, casting a lingering look at Silver that concluded in a wink. He laughed at his husband, but the sound was shaky. The other crewmen were gathering in small groups, save for one man who rested against a barrel of cargo, hands gripping his rifle.

Silver heard a man shout ‘Captain Flint,’ and it sent a chill up his spine. The name was injected with malice and loathing, not a request for reasonable negotiations or mercy. Silver’s trepidation returned, clawing its way from his stomach to throat.

 

He observed the captain of the other ship approach Flint. He was a short, stocky man, balding and wanting for land. Even from  _ The Walrus _ , Silver could see spit fly from his mouth when he spoke. The man seemed to have a severe death wish: He touched Flint’s elbow before gesturing to his ship, saying something that caused Flint’s eyes to narrow. Drawing his arm back, Flint shook his head and placed a hand on his pistol.

“There is no need for this to end in violence,” Flint called loud enough for his crew to hear. It carried over to Silver, and he grimaced.

The other captain laughed, patting his protruding stomach. In a heavily accented voice, he growled, “Everything must end in blood,  _ Capitan _ . Or has your  _ puta  _ wife made you soft?” Flint bristled as the captain stepped into his space, pressing their chests flush. 

The crew was silent; even the wind was holding its breath, not even daring a whisper while the two captains stared one another down. The Spanish Captain was more complacent, maliciously challenging Flint to a fight that would lose them both a significant portion of men, goading him on with a crooked, yellow grin. Breath hot, he leaned into Flint’s space, but spoke loud enough that even Silver could catch the insult. “But perhaps not a wife, eh? Unless you are the wife?” he sneered. “ _ ¿Por qué no lo admites? Todo el mundo sabe que eres marica.”  _

Flint didn’t flinch, but the Spanish Captain sneered as if he had. The crew may not have been made of scholars, but they had all been on the sea long enough to recognize the implication of the word  _ marica.  _ Silver’s eyes lingered on Dobbs; the man was shifting from foot to foot and tapping the pistol in his belt, and it surprised him that the man would leap to defend an alleged queer, one who had never showed him an ounce of respect.

  
Silver closed his eyes for a second and prayed this wouldn’t head the way the Spaniards seemed to desire. He attempted to meet Flint’s eyes across the water, but his husband was pointedly ignoring him. Scowling, he dragged himself closer to the platform, noisily threatening to join the standoff if the  _ Walrus _ ’ Captain could not compose himself. The Quartermaster took a deep breath to steady himself while he ran his hands across the shift, finding reassurance in the smooth wood. Flint narrowed his eyes and clenched his fist, the pugnacious Captain scratched at his belly, Silver resisted the urge to shout. His intervention, while emotionally satisfying, would neither be wise or appreciated. He halted and crossed his arms to put his entire weight on the  _ Walrus,  _ swallowing his heart back down to where it belonged.

 

James turned his head slightly, so subtly that Silver would not have noticed if he had not been watching so intently, and met his gaze. Silver’s stomach rolled with the sight; behind his eyes was all the pain he never allowed in the light, the guilt and resentment, but also love and loyalty for the poor soul on his ship, begging the Captain for caution and mercy. But then he turned again, and in that instant, a shadow crossed his face. The crew even sensed it, and their grips tightened on their weapons.

“We’re here for only one thing,” Flint growled. The sound sent shivers through Silver’s spine and he involuntarily took a step back, grunting at the shocked spasm in his leg.

“Yes, you are after some wood,  _ Capitan.  _ Do you not have much of that already?”

Silver sighed. Flint reared back and punched the man with all his might, sending him staggering across the deck, flailing but also screeching for his men to remain still. Both crews eyed each other warily, anticipating and dreading the inevitable conflict. The Spanish Captain righted himself, pulling his shirt down as if that could return his dignity. His eyes were wide with rage and disgust, and his lack of a call to action made Silver more skeptical than grateful.

But then the Spaniard  _ laughed _ , a rambunctious, open mouthed, giddy chortle, and reached forward to clap Flint on the back. “What silly rumors!” he shouted. “No  _ merica  _ can hit like that!” Flint did not laugh, instead curling his lip distastefully and regarding the other man warily.

 

“We do not want our crew dead, yes? So you take your timber, and now I have a bruise to show my struggle with the dread Captain Flint and my country doesn’t shun me. I don’t have the stomach for too much violence,” he said with another deep laugh and a gesture to his large belly.

Ever distrustful, Flint stood completely still, bracing for retribution. The Spaniard shook his head and paced away, giving orders to his crew in rapid Spanish. Silver gaped when he heard them agree to take the  _ Walrus’  _ men down to the timber and show them the proper way to transport it. Flint carefully reminded them all to keep their weapons close and their wits about them before they descended into the lower decks.

The transfer was complete in two hours, hours in which the Spanish offered spirits and conversation. The crew labored over the timber, but quick breaks were spent with some of the pirates’ proclaimed enemies, swapping stories of the high seas. Flint walked around as if he was ready for a canon to drop and kept looking at Silver with all the confusion he could muster. Silver simply smiled and shrugged, too keen for a good thing to allow this one to fall apart.

With the timber loaded and the men sated, the Spaniards waving merrily, and the crew safe and sound back on board, Silver could finally breathe. No one dared mention their Captain’s initial clash, nor did they address the rumors, at least not to his face. Silver had no doubt that the day’s surreal excursion would be the subject of every meal until they reached Nassau. 

Only when the sun had set did Silver find time to visit Flint. He had spent the rest of their afternoon checking and rechecking the manifest, receiving assurances from Billy that the wood was safe and secure, and dodging Muldoon and Jasper’s increasingly outlandish theories about Flint’s bride or groom--or both, Jasper had suggested with eyes the size of the moon, and Silver had to banish thoughts of the Hamiltons.

Not bothering to knock, he strolled into the cabin, suddenly overcome with all the worry and anger that had simmered just below the surface for so many hours. Too many, it seemed, because he was already breathless, torn between throwing the inkwell in his immediate vicinity or taking a seat like a practical human being. He chose practicality, if only not to exacerbate his aching leg, but imagined with some relish the splatter of black against the floor all the same. 

James peered at him for a moment before replacing the quill in the pot. Crossing his arms and leaning back, one foot propped on his knee, he looked extremely self-satisfied, but Silver knew better than to think he would gloat. Instead, he lowered his eyes and help up a hand, placating. “Just fucking say it,” he demanded, but his voice was only rough around the edges, not all the way through.

Silver glared, and the ring resting against his chest felt like it was going to burn a hole in his skin. “I love  _ you _ ,” he began insistently, the statement as always thrilling him, “but I am first and foremost  _ their _ Quartermaster, and the next time you endanger them, I will have one of them drag you back while I take over this ship. That, my dear, will do far more damage to your pride and reputation than a few choice words regarding your lascivious exploits. What will they say when a cripple defeats the most feared pirate in the Caribbean?”

 

“That it must have been easy after the cripple stole his heart.”

Silver’s gaze softened and he let a small smile grace his lips. He looked out past Flint to the sky outside, admiring the moonlight and stars. “What a reckless Captain you are. You must have only married me to balance your wildness,” he teased, but there was bitterness in his tone that could not be disguised. “I’m a widow waiting to happen.”

“You knew when you married me that my sole purpose in this life is revenge. Pain is just another organ in my body, and it moves me to actions I find unspeakable. My pride and my reputation allow me days like these without bloodshed, but there will come a time when I make a gamble and cost us many lives, one of which could be my own.”

Silver exhaled and furrowed his brow slightly before continuing with more confidence. “We cannot have a life together somewhere, away from all these demons and all this death, if you are lying at the bottom of the ocean.” His chest constricted at the mere notion of Flint’s demise.

“All that is mine is yours now. You can take that house when I am gone, begin anew.” Flint cleared his throat. “The path I follow is not without risk. I will not have you lying in that sea beside me.”

“I would follow you down,” Silver whispered, heart climbing back up to his mouth. “I would follow you anywhere.” His next breath came out ragged and hoarse. “‘Til death do us part is a great fucking lie. Death won’t keep me from you.”

Flint inhaled sharply and stood so abruptly that his chair rocked threateningly behind him. He paid it no mind, instead rounding his desk to lean over and capture Silver in a furious kiss. His fingers threaded roughly in his long curls, tangling it even further as their teeth scraped and noses bumped. The Captain tasted like Spanish rum and sea salt, and it was divine; he kissed him with the devout reverence of a worshiper finally finding God, every unsated prayer suddenly more than worth the numinous denouement.

When Flint retreated, it was slow, his lips lingering while Silver begged him to stay, open door and precious cargo and a curious crew be damned. Flint clicked his tongue and obliged one last chaste kiss before he straightened and wiped the dampness from the corner of his mouth with his thumb. Silver almost moaned, but he was determined to retain his composure.

Flint went to the window, his back to his husband. “I’d say this timber is quite the priority in Nassau, wouldn’t you?”

 

Silver hummed gruffly in response, and Flint chuckled. “Jack Rackham would want it back as soon as possible, I’d imagine.” He turned to eye his Quartermaster, his disheveled and painfully aroused state more than obvious to the Captain. “Tell the crew to ready for departure. I want off this ship so I can fuck you properly.”

Silver licked his lips and nodded jerkily as he dragged himself to stand. “Yes, sir.”


	6. Arms of the Ocean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who has stuck with this--with us--for this endeavor, we can't even begin to show our gratitude. Honestly, neither of us expected for this to become the fic it is. But with all of your encouragement and love, we felt we could really flesh it out and create something significant. It is out longest (finished!) fic ever, and we could not be more proud. So thank you! And we hope you enjoy reading the last chapter as much as we enjoyed writing it.

It was afternoon when _The Walrus_ reached Nassau’s waters. Silver knew only by the gleaming sun warming him through the windows; he had not ventured above deck since the night before, content in his plans to memorize every inch of his husband's body until he could know him by the briefest of touches alone. He had done so for enough nights that the crew was starting to ask after his health. Muldoon was particularly worried that Silver’s confinement was due to insubordination and the accompanying punishments by Flint; John had to bite his tongue more than once to keep from blurting out the truth.

Flint was surprisingly receptive, leaving his quarters only when Silver was sated or asleep. Silver often listened to the sound of the waves and Flint’s gruff voice as he ordered men about the deck, smiling fondly as their ship journeyed home. The prospect that Flint was willing to reveal their relationship delighted Silver, and he took to offering no more bets or excuses in hopes that the crew would reach the correct conclusion.

By the time Flint was shouting for the ship to be anchored, they still had not.

“So do you think we’re finally going to meet her?” a blushing Muldoon asked, piling leftover food stores and weapons into the longboat as they made ready the launch. “Or him,” he added quickly. Silver shrugged and looked back to the deck where Flint stood. His sharp green eyes followed the activity on the ship--unspoken judgement and impatience--while his body stood poised and officious, echoing days long past. It was a magnificent sight. And it made Silver all the more keen to get to the beach, unload the timber, and find somewhere far enough away that he could scream his husband’s name without fear.

Silver cleared his throat and gestured for his friend to finish packing his current pile. Muldoon nodded and then handed them both a set of oars. Silver stared at the wood with mild trepidation--his arms were still sore from the night before--and then flashed Muldoon a smile to hide the hesitation. They set off in haste, Silver eager to be with Flint and Muldoon eager to “stretch his legs on something that isn’t made of wood,”  as he had told Silver that morning.

As they neared Nassau’s shoreline, the men could see a figure standing. Waiting. “Just the man I needed!” A voice carried its way from the beach. Silver could barely make out the silhouette, but the obnoxious, wispy hair of Jack Rackham was unmistakable, as was the delicate, frenetic way he waved the Quartermaster down. He sighed.

Muldoon followed his line of sight and chuckled. “That’s piss luck, mate. Why doesn’t he need Flint?”

“I expect the Captain is, how should I put this... less _sociable_ than Jack prefers,” Silver answered through gritted teeth. He grunted and hoisted the oars back to the correct position. “Shall we go find out what he wants?” Muldoon nodded, whistled, and then jumped into the water. He pulled the boat the rest of the way ashore and began dragging supplies onto the beach as Silver stepped out of the vessel, extracting his prosthesis as carefully as possible.

Jack approached with all the poise and dignity of someone wholly accustomed to the power he had gathered for himself on Nassau. His gait was one of purpose and urgency. His stance while he waited for Silver was one of controlled impatience.

“Come to make a rousing speech to my men?” Silver asked. “I’m sure they could use it with the weight of that timber.” He settled on a barrel to Jack’s left and grimaced when his leg twinged; Jack thankfully made no comment on his misfortune.

Jack narrowed his eyes as if considering the speech, and then shook his head at himself. He was wearing those dark glasses and sporting a slight frown. Silver gestured to that forlorn face, furrowing his brow in question, but Jack was never one who needed much prompting to speak.

“It’s all arrived safely, has it?” he inquired, but Silver could tell it was more of a precursor to what he truly wanted to ask. Though for for the sake of propriety, he resolved to play along.

“We had a brief quarrel with the Spanish captain,” he admitted graciously. Jack made a disgruntled but unsurprised noise. “However, no damage befell the timber, and the voyage home was a pleasant one.” Silver thought perhaps his voyage was a bit more pleasant than the rest of the crew’s; after all, he'd been the one able to kiss all of James’ freckles each night.

“I suppose Captain Flint was eager to step foot on this beach once more,” Jack remarked casually, leaning forward slightly into Silver’s space as if sharing a secret.

There it was. Silver resisted the urge to laugh in the man’s face; poor Jack, who knew everything on the damn island, couldn’t get his hands on this little bit of information. He also reminded himself to thank Max later for her expert secret-keeping and unwavering loyalty to him.

“You believe this mystery partner to be on Nassau, then?”

Jack shifted his weight from one foot to another, kicked some sand. “I’ve heard _rumors,_ of course, but that’s all they are. It is the most logical conclusion, after all, and my men did tell me the journey homeward was speedier than necessary.” Here he cleared his throat and turned slightly pink. “I did, ah, ask Charles when I heard a particular theory.” Silver hadn’t thought that one had left the ship, but as soon as the crew had landed, it must have spread like wildfire from the first man on shore. He gestured politely for Jack to continue, a smile beginning at the corners of his lips.

“The bastard said yes at first, of course, but I should have known he’d play me a fool. When I expressed my stupefied congratulations, he called me an idiot and laughed hard enough that Anne came sprinting from the other room to check for danger.”

Silver clapped a hand over his own mouth to snuff the incredibly rude sounds of glee threatening to escape him. He couldn’t quell the tears of mirth in his eyes, though, or stop the way he had to grip the barrel to keep from toppling over.

Jack looked positively mortified. “ _However,”_ he interjected into Silver’s fit, “I thus am sure you at least acquired the true answer to this absurd mystery while aboard the _Walrus._ ”

“I’m afraid not,” Silver choked out, attempting to sober himself. “You will have to ask Flint yourself.”

“Ask me what exactly?” Flint asked from behind Jack, voice deep and irritated. He cut an impressive figure anyway, but beside the rather skinny Jack Rackham, he was menacing. Menacing, of course, until he winked at his husband from beyond Jack’s shoulder.

The other man turned and the stern mask went back on. “Simply ensuring the cargo is all in order, Captain, which is a formality on my part. My faith in your abilities in this matter is quite unadulterated.”

“I understand. If you would accompany me to the _Walrus,_ you can inspect it yourself while we unload.”

“Certainly, Captain.” They walked off together, leaving Silver to his musings until Howell came over and demanded to clean the prosthesis. The Doctor then discovered how fast a man with one good leg could run.

 

...

 

It took hours to unload all the timber, resulting in severely aggravated men and more than a few threats from the Captain. Silver wondered when Dobbs had developed such an extreme death wish and resolved to speak to the man about it before the _Walrus’_ next voyage.

Of course, as soon as the money had been distributed, the crew was satisfied. Jubilant cries became the music of the sea as each man felt coins hit his palm. They exchanged ideas for spending it loudly as the profits and payments were distributed. Underneath that chatter were quick exchanges and murmurs to put money down for Eleanor, “yes I’m sure” and “I wonder if Flint will ever let us know.” Silver was glad he could blame his red face on the lingering heat of the day.

Most of the crew fled the beach immediately. Those unlucky enough to find their feet still on the sand when Flint neared were tasked with setting up camp, and they begrudgingly dragged canvas from the longboats as they muttered about the tavern running dry before they could have a single drink. Silver’s own nerves wore thin as he dragged food and water to the cook’s tent; Flint was preoccupied with orders and inspections and the acquisition of new supplies, and he himself was ensuring the men did not strangle one another as the afternoon turned to night. He and his husband had had little time for anything more than an exchange of a few words or subtle smirks.

Silver helped Muldoon put up a small tent while the rest of the crew put up theirs around them. Stray dogs and laughing children wove through the camp, kicking up sand and earning a few shouts, but mostly smiles. Whores sent down by Max milled about under the stars with half-lidded eyes and thin dresses, spurring the men to work faster. Silver suggested to make sure the work was completed _well_ before they brought the ladies inside, or the whole structure might collapse, and it would be a nuisance to build a new one halfway through a good fuck. Muldoon howled at this as they picked a spot for the Quartermaster’s lodgings.

Returning the favor, Muldoon assisted in putting together Silver’s tent. The canvas swayed slightly in the nighttime breeze, and John was grateful for both the company and the help. He cast hungry glances at Flint’s tent often enough that he thought Muldoon might notice, but the man was preoccupied with planning what clothing he was going to buy with the bet money from Silver’s “vicious beating.” The Quartermaster had to grin at that, and lost himself in discussing adventures in town with his friend until they finished. Muldoon bid him good night with a hug and a yawn, and trudged wearily to his own sleeping-place soon after.

Silver was far from weary. He cast a glance around to observe his men, delighting in their happiness. Most were carousing by a monstrous fire they had built further down shore, dancing with each other and with Max’s whores. John could vaguely make out the lean form of Billy Bones, a bottle in one hand as he listened to the crew sing and jest. They were spending their coin unwisely, disposing of it all in one night on women and liquor, which meant everything was right in the world.

With the men busy for the evening, Silver felt he could walk to Flint’s tent unnoticed. And he did just that, only vaguely aware of the sting in his leg while he traversed the sloping beach. Flint’s tent had been erected further away from the men’s to save him from their drunken revelry and general debauchery. Dobbs’ question earlier that night as to why the Captain didn’t stay at the Barlow house almost got him drowned, but that mishap hadn’t quelled the desire to settle the betting pool once in for all. It was only the fear of being skinned alive by Flint that kept the crew from spying on the man’s visitors.

Silver slipped into the Captain’s tent with little ceremony, his intentions unmasked as he doffed his overcoat. Flint turned when he heard the fabric land on the small desk they had dragged into the tent for any final paperwork. His mouth quirked into a smile, and he licked his lips.

“Fucking took you long enough,” Flint growled, the words almost lost as he drew Silver in for a hungry kiss. Silver moaned, one hand curling into his husband’s shirt. He would never tire of the way James tasted, that sharp tang of oranges and ocean. So he drank him in, letting himself go slack in Flint’s arms until he was lost in the kiss. It was deep but gentle, making up for a day of hard labor and limited touches. But it wasn't enough.

Turning abruptly, Silver placed his palms flat on the desk and pushed his hips back. But Flint took his time, nibbling Silver’s neck and ear. He tilted his husband's chin back to capture a languid kiss. It was torturous, burning like the sand on a hot day without water in sight. Flint’s fingers ghosted over Silver’s thigh, yet he continued to make no move to give his husband what he wanted.

“ _James_ ,” Silver pleaded. He'd meant to make it a demand, but the force was lost beneath the tightness of his chest and in the shallowness of his breaths. It was beautifully sensual, just being held, touched, kissed. When Flint’s hand fell to Silver's neck, long fingers pressed to his lips. Silver whimpered.

He finally brought his hands back and pulled Flint closer to him. Silver kissed his fingertips while rocking his hips back, smiling once Flint was draped over him, free hand ghosting over Silver's trousers. Silver inhaled sharply through his nostrils and rocked back again, tired of only hearing smug laughs from his husband. Tired of tentative fingers and caution. He got the reaction he desired; Flint moaned quietly in his ear and curled his hand at Silver’s thigh.

Flint grabbed Silver’s chin and pulled him in for a messy kiss that should have been painful at such an awkward angle. But with Flint hard and grinding against him, Silver could only feel the fire in his veins and ask for more.

Biting his lip, Silver dug his nails into the desk as his trousers fell to his ankles. He ducked his head, watching Flint’s hands travel up and down his thighs, across his hips. But he grabbed Flint’s hand and shook his head when he tried to move them back. “I don’t need that,” he assured. Flint hesitated only slightly before kissing the back of Silver’s neck and reaching for the oil with which Howell had supplied them. He slicked himself before pressing his thigh between Silver’s, carefully spreading his legs more.

Silver whimpered at the feeling of Flint pressed to him, body thrumming in anticipation. And no matter how many times James had been inside him, Silver never lost his desire to give everything over to the other man, a feeling he thought similar to letting oneself sink into the depths of the sea.

With one hand on the desk for support, Silver brought his other arm to wrap around his husband’s neck. Flint had his face buried in Silver’s neck, hot breath coming in bursts with each thrust. They were quiet; no words were exchanged, because only the softest of sounds were needed to say _more_ , _please_ , and _yes--there._

Silver tried to fight the heat low in his abdomen, so brilliant it almost hurt. Slow, so slow. He was lost in it, wondering just how long he could keep Flint inside of him. He cried out in quiet desperation when he came, voice muffled as he turned for another kiss. It was mere moments before Flint did as well, his body shaking from the effort of holding himself back. Hands splayed over Silver’s thighs, he rubbed circles into his skin that felt like fire.

All Silver could do was breathe slowly. He felt utterly drained in the most pleasant way; boneless and sated, as if he could sleep for a week. Smiling as he felt Flint slack against him, he realized that could very well be possible.

“James,” Silver broke their silence, not at all surprised when his voice was thick with lethargy, “We should--”

“Captain?”

Silver laughed, a breathless sound that Flint felt through his entire body. But the Captain was tired of every moment with his husband ending in interruption, and poor Howell was now the subject of weeks of reserved, all-encompassing rage. Flint closed his eyes and turned his face toward the tent’s entrance, speaking with his lips ghosting across Silver’s shoulders.

“Doctor, if a single part of your body enters this tent, I will shoot it off,” Flint growled. Silver continued chucking and placed his hand over his husband’s, tangling their fingers together, and then pulled Flint’s hand until he could kiss his palm. The Captain sighed and held Silver close.

“As tempting as it is to take time off from the ship,” Howell called, unaffected, “I’d prefer to have all my extremities.” He paused, and Flint used the silence to remove himself from his lover, eliciting a short gasp from Silver. “That being said, it seems those with lost limbs seem to be doing just fine,” the doctor continued pointedly.

Silver laughed despite himself. Turning his head, he saw a smile tugging at the corner of Flint’s lips, attempting to free itself from his perpetual scowl. His eyes were brighter than the Caribbean, blue and fathoms deep. Silver felt the air leave his lungs. Flint passed his hands down Silver’s side and turned him until they were facing one another, simply breathing. “What is it you want, Howell?” Silver eventually asked, still looking at his husband.

"The men want to celebrate with their Quartermaster. You can leave the Captain here if you like; I don’t think they want scolding tonight.”

Flint's scowl, unsurprisingly, returned with a vengeance.

“You interrupted us to tell me--” Silver silenced Flint with a hand over his mouth. Flint’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly; however, his only response was to slide his tongue between Silver’s fingers. Shaking his head with more amusement than anything else, Silver pulled his hand away and kissed Flint chastely.

“The Captain will be on his best behavior,” Silver said just loud enough for Howell to hear. He delighted in the way Flint’s eyebrows drew together, thinking of the times he could have earned a knife to the neck for such a comment. Instead, he felt Flint’s lips on the side of his neck, and moaned appreciatively. Flint withdrew, looking smug.

“Or we could stay here.”

Silver laughed again, all music and mirth. “And miss all the fun?”

The tense set of Flint’s jaw and thin line of his lips objected tacitly to Silver’s idea of fun, but he pulled his trousers up anyway, mumbling darkly about the crew. Silver knew Flint did--mostly--care for his crew, and thought it was right to celebrate with them. But he could not the deny the selfish thrill of being the only one with whom the captain wanted to celebrate.

They met Howell outside the tent and made their way to the beach slowly, Howell asking questions about the prosthetic and overexertion all the way, ignoring Flint’s pointed glares. Silver answered with ease, surprising even himself. He felt loose and wild, like he wouldn’t even mind if Flint took him in front of the entire crew. When he observed the scene on the beach, he wondered if they would even notice.

The men had obviously not calmed in the absence of their Captain and Quartermaster. Max’s girls were sharing in spoils, lounging over various laps and dancing for a few extra gold pieces. The men--those who weren’t passed out drunk on the sand--had fed the fire until it roared into the sky, hot orange and framed by stars. Jasper was deep in conversation with a prostitute who seemed frustrated that he was too nervous to touch her. Silver laughed to himself.

Smiling and blissful from his time with Flint, Silver hung back and watched longer. Some other crews had joined the _Walrus’_ and there seemed not to be trouble for now. Dobbs looked a little too drunk to be civil with strangers, but Silver could see a small brawl as entertainment for the men now, rather than an all-out battle of the crews. Still, he kept his gaze on the volatile man for a bit, and only glanced away when more logs were tossed into the flames. Men shouted approvingly as the fire crackled and soared into the air, bathing every face in yellow. He and Howell remained unseen in the shadows, listening. Rumors danced vibrantly through the night, wild and unpredictable.

“She’s gotta be here, I’m tellin’ ya, I bet Flint ravished her the moment he got that tent up.”

“Nah, Vane’s off on a hunt right now, so they’ll be fucking when ‘e gets back.”

“It’s a siren mate, I keep tellin’ ya--”

“Could be Billy, I haven’t seen him in a bit…”

“I’m over here, idiot!”

“Right. Sorry.”

Silver listened to these tales with varying degrees of frustration. He still found the Vane rumor to be intensely entertaining, and the sirens were fanciful enough to be amusing. Yet jealousy gnawed at his stomach and made this deception all the more difficult to keep. He wanted to march Flint in front of the entire island and declare their marriage to all of Nassau, become the rulers they were both meant to be, live as kings.

Silver blinked when he realized Howell was still by his side. Arms crossed, the man leaned back until his shoulder bumped Silver’s. “Are you planning on mentioning that you and Flint married each other weeks ago?”

Resting his chin in the juncture of his thumb and forefinger, Silver gazed at his crew not without some adoration, a mixture of exhilaration and trepidation his stomach knot.

“Not until they get tired of placing bets.”

Howell laughed quietly, shaking his head. He patted Silver’s shoulder and motioned for him to follow as he neared the bonfire. The men were settling down now, some on the sand, others on blankets or chairs. They welcomed Silver uproariously, offering him their chairs and bottles of rum. He eventually accepted both, sighing contentedly as he stretched out his leg.

Someone was singing. Silver listened with detached interest, eyes on the flames in front of him. Sparks danced into the evening sky, framing the stars. He mouthed the names of the constellations as he found them, thinking of the night Flint had traced their shapes on his back. Conversations were dying down around him; they were replaced slowly by the sound of sex in the tents around the bonfire, drunken tunes, and cheers of encouragement. Silver could see some of the crew swimming near the shoreline. It was nowhere near quiet, but there was something peaceful about it nonetheless.

After a while, someone tapped his knee. Jasper glanced at Silver nervously, breaking eye contact more often than not, and wrung his hands together. “The--the men, they asked me ta’, well; they asked me ta’ ask you if you had anyfin else about the cap--captain, uh, sir?” He swallowed when his voice cracked.

And with that, the spell of it all was broken. Silver sighed. The other crewman were now eagerly awaiting a response; they had their hands at their coin purses, and were glancing at one another carefully.

“You see, we fink we should jus’ ask ‘im now, ya’ see, but we--we was wonderin… It’s easier to ask you, sir, uh…” Jasper was grasping desperately for words now. He was red in the face, and sweating slightly. Silver ran a hand through his hair as he listened to Jasper drone on.

“Alright, alright,” he finally interjected, raising his bottle. It was three-quarters empty now, and Silver knew he would wind up draining it and at least four more bottles if he didn’t say something soon. “I know who the captain married.” This was met with good-natured accusations of betrayal and various other outcries. Silver chuckled, cheeks warmed by the alcohol and fire.

“Get on wittit, then,” Dobbs growled. “Unless you’re just fuckin’ around.”

Silver glared at him for a few seconds before steeling himself with a deep breath. “Do not assume that you are welcome to any information that I possess, Mr. Dobbs.”

A strong hand pressed forcefully into Silver’s shoulder and he stiffened. The crewmen around him turned pale, wide-eyed, and others further away shuffled nervously or did their best to shrink back into the shadows. Jasper looked ready to faint. One man crossed himself, which was odd to Silver since he knew him to be an atheist.

“What information is it that you possess, Mr. Silver?” Flint asked, low and languorous. The tremor in his voice seemed to be from anger, but Silver knew him well enough to hear the amusement, as well as the accompanying quelled laughter. He succeeded in keeping a smile from his face and thus looking acceptably agitated by the Captain’s presence. Beside Silver, Howell cleared his throat and hid his mouth, obviously not as successful.

Silver twisted his neck to meet his husband’s eyes. “Information about your marriage, Captain.”

Jasper balked. Dobbs, for all his tenacity, was gripping his bottle hard enough to turn his knuckles white. Even the fire had lost some of it boldness; its crackling was subdued and each pop seemed a shock in the suddenly silent camp. No one dared to move, speak, or even breathe. Flint had asserted his command with one carefully placed hand.

Billy, in all of his intelligence and ambition, chose that heavy moment to release a loud, boisterous laugh. Howell once again had to turn away from joining in, but Jasper looked as if his spirit had left his body and Dobbs actually smashed the bottle. It exploded in a rain of rum, glass, and blood from the pieces getting caught in his fingers. Cursing, he plucked the shards out and left the mess to the sand. Then the crew waited, accompanied only by waves as they crashed against the shoreline.

Flint moved his hand to Silver’s throat, causing Jasper to bite his lip instead of protest. Silver was immeasurably pleased by the display of loyalty, but even more pleased by the way Flint’s calloused fingertips trailed along his skin.. The crew seemed indignant and Dobbs surprised, while Billy just looked uncomfortable. Silver met Flint’s eyes and smirked, and the Captain drummed his fingers past the hollow of Silver’s throat and slightly under his shirt to grasp the cord necklace hanging there. He pulled it up into the light, purposefully holding it next to the ring on his own hand. Silver’s heart fluttered. He leaned against Flint’s leg for support and looked to the crew, waiting for their realization.

It came in segments, each man connecting the rings on his own time. A gasp usually accompanied the conclusion, or, in Dobbs’ case, a hearty “What the _fuck._ ” A few crewman, including Muldoon, were roused from their tents by the commotion and came to maim the source for interrupting money well spent or a sleep well earned. Muldoon yelped, “John!” when he saw his friend’s alleged plight, and then slowly took in the rings. A wide smile broke his sleepy face; he mouthed “Congratulations,” at the Quartermaster before seating himself with the rest of the crew. Their eyes were flicking back and forth between one another with mixtures of confusion and smugness. Billy was still laughing riotously.

And Flint--Flint actually _smiled_ before lifting the cord which held Silver’s ring from around his neck. He slipped the ring off and then took his husband’s hand, and before all his crew, slid it onto Silver’s finger.

The crew erupted into cheers, save for those who were groaning and removing what little coin that had left from their pockets and purses. Silver grinned smugly, resting his head back against Flint’s side.

“Hand it over!” Silver chuckled as he held out his hand for the gold. Weeks of bets had led to this moment, and he was looking forward to adding the coins to his ever-growing savings. When a crewman walked forward, he waggled his fingers expectantly.

“Not so fast,” the man said with a chuckle, and turned away at the last second. Eyes narrowed in disbelief, Silver glared at Billy. Billy held up his hands and surrender and whispered, “Wasn’t me.” Then, to Silver’s utter astonishment, a line of crewman formed in front of Muldoon, who took each coin with a cheery grin.

“You!” Silver accused.

Muldoon just laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone at any point wondered what inspired this fic, it is all thanks to tumblr user honey-rat and this (http://honey-rat.tumblr.com/post/139147975907/i-like-to-think-that-silver-and-howell-are-totally) marvelous piece of art.


	7. Epilogue: The Place to Rest My Head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, you get an epilogue! Happy last day of Black Sails, everyone. This may be edited to be more eloquent once we're able to breathe again. We love you all, and thank you to everyone who read, kudo'd, and commented before. You are our truest loves.
> 
> Edit: Updated reflecting some finale revelations

John Silver woke from a deep sleep with the distinct feeling of being alone. He felt it in small things, such as the chill of the bed beside him and an unpleasant silence only broken by his breath. Inhaling deeply, he opened his eyes and looked around. No one was watching him sleep like he had expected. Instead, white sheets and white walls stared back at him. The radiant sun turned them blinding, reminding him of sparkling waves beneath _The Walrus._

With a groan, Silver sat up, hissing as the covers fell off and took the warmth with them. It may have been bright, but the house was cold. Silver scratched at his cheek and smiled when he found smooth skin. James had convinced him to shave his beard the night before--it was only fair, he supplied, since Silver had demanded he grow his hair out again. It wasn’t quite long enough for a ponytail yet; however, it was long enough for Silver to run his fingers through, or to grab. It depended on the occasion.

He had planned for the morning to be an occasion for grabbing, but his husband had rendered that fantasy unachievable. Silver heaved a long-suffering sigh. He had retired from piracy for this quiet life with his husband, complete with hours spent in bed and lazy strolls on the beach. They had both earned such peace. James, however, seemed to forget that every so often; it was difficult for him to retire Captain Flint or the accompanying guilt regardless of his wishes.

This was not the first time Silver had awoken alone. When inspiration or insomnia struck, James had taken to waking early and rebuilding parts of the Barlow house that still needed his careful, attentive hands. The fire had rendered Miranda’s home nearly unrecognizable, and it had taken years to reconstruct. Jack Rackham and Madi had been the first to volunteer their services, as well as their men’s, in bringing it back to life. And it was liveable now. Yet the absence of its original details seemed to weigh heavy on James at times, enough that the house begged his attention in the early mornings. The objects in their room spoke of their years together; books on tall shelves, a desk on the opposite wall, curtains taken directly from the _Walrus._ Silver and James had taken care to place each piece as a reminder of the life they had once had, of the people they had once been and known, of who they were now.

“James?” he called. No answer came. Silver rolled his eyes, reached for his crutches, and stood fluidly. His leg rarely pained him, which he owed to the patience of Dr. Howell, the gentleness of his husband, and--well, _not_ the boot he had insisted on wearing for too long. He was glad to have lost the thing to the ocean.

  
Silver dressed in a coffee brown tunic and black leather pants, hoping they would give James a reason to bring him back to their bedroom. He moved to the living room and glanced at the portrait of the Hamiltons on the wall, inclining his head toward it respectfully before continuing his search of the Barlow house. Silver fully recognized his role as one afforded to him by the sacrifice and love of the Hamiltons and had hung the portrait the moment he found it beneath the wreckage of the cottage. James had said nothing, struck by the miracle of its survival as well as the gesture itself, and kissed Silver with all the strength he could muster. They had never found Thomas on the plantation, but the painting allowed James to hold on to him in a way Silver never once envied.

The fireplace held only crumbling logs and coals from the night before, and Silver shivered, wishing he had brought a blanket with him. They usually ended their nights in front of that fire, learning of each other’s pasts or musing about their days ahead. Silver smiled at the piles of ash but soon turned away. He treaded carefully through the house, a ghost, looking for signs of his husband. There was an orange peel on the kitchen table, a cup of forgotten water. Silver trailed through the parlor. Memories glimmered faintly in his mind, recollections of the night he became Long John Silver. That legend was behind him now, though Nassau was not without whispers of those times. Stories that spoke of incomparable treasure to the pirates who desired it were bruited through the interior, yet none ever reached the Barlow house, and none ever would.

Finding the house empty, Silver opened the door to the porch. A salty breeze ruffled the loose fabric of his shirt, and he took a deep breath, reminded of the sea. Sometimes he and James both yearned for it, yet nothing could pry them from this place. Silver closed his eyes for a moment--allowing a vision of billowing sails and a stretch of sea--before stepping outside. James sat at a small table, eyes fixed intently on the book in his hands. Likely cold now, a cup of tea sat forgotten in the table’s center.

Silver leaned back against the railing. Setting his crutch to the side, he used his arms to keep himself upright, holding onto the worn wood. As Silver watched his husband, what crept upon him was the distinct feeling of being in love. He felt it in the small things, in the plentiful freckles bridging James’ nose, in the copper of his messy hair. There was a smudge on his face from where he’d rubbed a bit of dirt while working.

Silver loved how he had lost almost all of the tension in his spine and how he could take a quiet moment without looking over his shoulder. When Woodes-Rogers had been imprisoned, another Englishman, a familiar face in Augustus Featherstone, had taken his place as Royal Governor. He had far more empathy and his partner had far greater erudition. On condition of their retiring, James and Silver were allowed to remain in Nassau. It had been a difficult choice, at least for James and his godforsaken war, but ultimately the right one. Silver could not imagine having stayed his course with the decision he had made. His nightmares always came with his hands stained in James Flint’s blood.

He did not want to call out to him, not yet, for he feared losing that mesmerizing view. James was turned away--and immersed in his book--just enough to have missed Silver’s arrival. He wore a long white tunic, its sleeves piling around his wrists because he had pushed them out of his way. His hair hung loose, and every page or two he would brush a stray strand back into place behind his ear. Silver was content to daydream to the music of gulls and turning paper, to trace again and again the lines and angles of James with his eyes until even blindness would not keep his shape from him.

Yet a small selfishness stirred in Silver. Smirking, he pushed his crutch into a board he knew to creak at even the slightest pressure. James looked up, his thumb catching his place in the book as the pages folded over. Silver did not see its title, but it did not matter. His eyes were for his husband alone.

“Yes?” A half-smile danced across James’ mouth.

“I find I rather don’t like waking up to find you gone.” His grin was wide and wicked, lips pressed firm, implying what could have been if James had not abandoned their bed. He cocked his head to the side as James regarded him.

“Is that so?” James stood slowly and let his book close. He drummed his knuckles on the table and then ducked his head, a short, fondly exasperated laugh following. “I suppose I ought to do something about that.”

“I suppose you ought to,” Silver replied, trying his best not to laugh. James stood and crowded into Silver, fitting perfectly in the open area, and tenderly placed his hands on either side of Silver’s face. The frigid air long forgotten, they leaned into one another; Silver felt James’ hands fall and wrap around his, holding him steady.

“Forgive me, husband,” he placated teasingly. His voice was barely a whisper. The chaste kiss he pressed to Silver’s lips was penitence enough, as was the way his left hand encircled Silver’s own between them. Their rings clicked as they were struck together, a sound of which Silver would never tire. He had worn it long enough now that the skin beneath it was calloused and pale, and he intended to wear it until he was beneath the ground or returned to the sea.

Sliding his hand along Silver’s arm, James looked out to the horizon. His eyes narrowed. At some point he said something about rain approaching, but Silver only hummed distractedly in response, mind fixed solely on the warmth of James’ body where they touched. Gray clouds in the distance didn’t warrant his attention when he had tan skin to caress and soft lips to kiss.

Eventually Silver deepened that kiss, but there was was no longer any lust or demand behind it. Having James close was enough. When he pulled away, he rubbed his nose against James’, smiling at the giddiness he felt. He still marveled that James could make him feel this way after all this time. After they had become the people they were, lost the people they lost. Silver felt like the person he had been when he met the fearsome Captain Flint had been lifetimes ago. Billy Bones' fate was unknown--Silver hoped he was dead--and he no longer had Silver’s respect or friendship. Max's secretive governance was like a breath of fresh air, and Anne still roamed the ocean with Jack and a new flag. Though he could never have predicted it, Silver now counted Jack Rackham among all people as one of his closest confidants. The man never could give up the sea, and often brought stories to James and Silver when the waves began calling again.

But James--he was a constant in the storm, and Silver intended to never let him go.


End file.
